


New City, Thedas

by stonemad



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, Multi, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, and all the other characters really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3257372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonemad/pseuds/stonemad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwynn Lavellan is in a new city, hurt, raw, and defensive after escaping the explosion that killed her friends and family. She rents the cheapest room available in a run-down apartment block called 'Haven' and attempts to rebuild her life. Everything is new and strange to her (except her on-again, off-again fling with her old friend Sera) but her interactions with Haven's occupants prove to be the strangest of all. </p>
<p>Eventual Solas/Lavellan. Ratings/pairings may change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Safe Haven

_You should have died with the rest of your clan._

_Get out of here, Lavellan._

 

***

 

New city. Thedas.

Cool autumn sunlight filters through the bus window, striping Gwynn's rumpled clothing and forcing her eyes open. It's half-past-eight in the morning, and the overnight train and bus ride to Thedas sure hasn't done her any favours. She feels dirtier than usual, her neck sore from the strange angle she was sleeping at. She wants to brush her teeth.

Yawning, she lifts a sleeve to wipe at the inside of the window; it's cold enough in the mornings now for a filmy, sparkling layer of condensation. She catches a glimpse of her reflection; pale from lack of sleep, pointed ears poking out from her dark, messy hair, which is sticking up like duck's down. Rubbing tired eyes, Gwynn Lavellan looks out at her new home-to-be.

It's grey and unwelcome.

They have just reached the border of the outer suburbs. Urban renewal is slowly taking over the decay out here, like new shoots under old leaves. There are a few trendy-looking coffee shops and bars, but the rest of it is old housing blocks, vacant shop-fronts and laundromats.

A sudden burst of colour from a market distracts her and she nearly misses her stop. _Good to know it's here,_ she thinks, lugging her small bag off the bus. She digs her phone out of her oversized jacket to check Sera's message from yesterday:

_got ya a place, one of our jennys friends just moved out. unit 4B 180 frostback street, thanks much, and give that humey landlord a good smack in the snozz for me ay?_

Gwynn shakes her head, trying to load up a map on her phone, but it looks like reception and data both are bad here.

A bunch of elves, Asian looking, mostly, are at the tail-end of setting up their stalls. One of them calls out to her, making her jump. "Need fruit? Beautiful strawberries here!"

Gwynn gives a small smile and goes to buy the strawberries, asking the small woman for directions while she's at it. It turns out Frostback street is close by, and even if the strawberries are a bit of a luxury, they're well worth the price for a bit of friendly conversation and a burst of comforting sweetness across her tongue.

 

Frostback street is like most of the others in the area. It's sheltered a few streets back from the main road, Calanhad Way, where the market is. Behind the market, it's mostly residential housing. There are fewer cars on Frostback Street than on the main road, but still a steady flow of traffic. For Gwynn, who grew up in the country and had been to large cities only a handful of times, it's slightly unnerving.

There's a carpenter and a coffee shop on Frostback too, but following the numbers down the street Gwynn finds herself outside a large apartment block. She counts the windows upwards -- five storey, it looks like. A sign over the many-mouthed letter box reads 'Haven, 180 Frostback Street' in faded lettering.

Delaying, she pokes her finger into the slot of 4B's letterbox. Half-formed thoughts swirl around her head. Maybe it’s not too late to go back home; but where would she go; how is she supposed to survive here; what should she do; she doesn’t know ...

She shakes her head sharply and steps through the whirring electric doors into the foyer of the building.

A grumpy-looking old man is sitting in a glass-encased office just inside the entrance. She sees him see her through the window, and then his eyes flick down to whatever he's reading on his desk. Dumbfounded that he's ignoring her so blatantly, Gwynn just stands there.

"You're going to have to go in if you want him to speak with you," says a wry voice from behind her.

Gwynn turns so fast she nearly slips on the tile floor. A tall human woman reaches an arm out as if to steady her, face surprised. Gwynn takes in chopped dark hair and olive skin and a massive scar slashed from her jawline to her cheek. "Careful," the woman says, sounding almost annoyed.

"Ah..." Gwynn says intelligently.

The woman is dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, and she's holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand. She's dressed casually enough, but there's something militant about her stance that sets Gwynn on edge.

"Are you new here?" The woman asks curiously.

"Ah ... Yes. Hopefully. I suppose I should talk to ..." She points at the man who is still steadfastly ignoring them both.

"Roderick," the woman says, grimacing. "He is the manager of the building, yes." Gwynn wonders if Sera meant to warn her about the manager, rather than the landlord. "Good luck," the woman adds, then she strides towards the front door, fitting the helmet over her head.

"Thanks for the help," Gwynn mutters.

Steeling herself, she squares her shoulders and knocks on the door to the office. When the man barely looks up, she opens the door.

Finally he addresses her. "May I help you?" His eyes flick over her pointed ears, rest on her neck where the edges of her tattoos can just be seen. His lip curls slightly.

She tries her best to ignore him. "Roderick, is it...? I'm ... I'm the new tenant. For 4B. May I have the keys?"

The man gives a mildly disgusted sigh and stands, rooting around in a drawer. He holds up a key but doesn't hand it to her. "That ... _friend_ of yours left the paperwork in the apartment. Fill it out and bring it down before five o'clock." He tosses the key at her and picks up his pen. Gwynn supposes Sera made a bad impression.

She murmurs her thanks, already dismissed by his furious penning, and exits backwards through the door, nearly bumping into a pretty red-headed woman. The woman gives her a faint smile. "New tenant? For 4B?" she asks. Her accent is French, Gwynn thinks.

"Yeah...How did you know?"

The woman points to the key in Gwynn's hand with a smile. The tag on the keyring is clearly labelled with her apartment number. "I heard your friend organising it for you yesterday. She made quite the commotion when Mr. Roderick was...reluctant to accommodate someone at such short notice."

"My friend? Sera?"

"Short girl, blonde hair...? Yes, her."

"Ah." Gwynn raises the heel of her hand to rub her eyes. "No wonder he looked like someone pissed in his tea."

The red-headed woman chuckles delicately, then extends a hand. "I am Leliana."

"Gwynn. Nice to meet you." She smiles, relaxing enough to take in Leliana's chic grey and black clothing. Leliana's high-heeled boots are sturdy enough to be practical, but still look like they cost an arm and a leg. _She looks like a model,_ Gwynn thinks distractedly. Then she notices the tiny instrument case in Leliana's other hand. "Is that a ukulele?" She asks incredulously.

Leliana raises it, eyes twinkling. "The king of instruments. I must be going, Gwynn, but it was a pleasure to meet you." She hands Gwynn a card, which simply reads ‘Nightingale’ and a phone number. "Let us get coffee some time, yes?"

Gwynn smiles. "That'd be great." She watches Leliana leave, sees her acknowledge the woman from before -- she's on her bike, and she raises a hand to Leliana before speeding away.

Looking around, Gwynn guesses the first floor is a reception area, with public bathrooms, faded couches, and a few lonely vending machines. If it's supposed to be a common room, it looks thoroughly disused. She makes her way up to the fourth floor in a clunky old elevator.

Unit 4B looks tiny even from the outside and opening the door proves it. Calling it a 'one bedroom apartment' is optimistic at best; it's more like half a living room connected to half a kitchen. There is a window, grimier than even the bus windows had been, shuttered by cheap blinds. The 'bed' is actually a fold out couch, and aside from that and a low table there is no other furniture in the room. _At least I'm not sleeping on the floor._

Opening another door reveals a small bathroom. This at least looks clean. It contains a small shower cubicle, a toilet, and an awkwardly placed mirror above a basin. Still, having her own bathroom is a step up from her old home. _Maybe this won't be so bad after all._ She runs the shower for a minute, hand under the water, waiting for it to warm, when the shower makes a spluttering noise and starts to work only in stops and starts.

With a sigh, Gwynn turns it off. She digs around in her bag for her toothbrush, figuring she can at least get her mouth feeling less like something died in it. After she brushes her teeth in metallic tasting water, she sheds her coat and falls onto the lumpy mattress.

She should cry, she thinks dully. Cry, and get some of this sick weight off her chest. But she's too exhausted even for that.

As she drifts off, she can faintly hear someone moving around in the apartment next door. _And to cap it all off, the walls are thin. Welcome to Thedas,_ she thinks as she falls asleep.

 

Taking the train to the city had been an experience. Kind of beautiful, really, with the red and white dance of tail-lights beside the train overnight, then the soft cool glow of pre-dawn. There were lines of broken old telephone wires draping from their poles like vines, leaving the birds to wonder where to sit. The train's shuddering breath helped steady hers.

Gwynn dreams about it. The trees flash by her in a blur, and when she looks around she realises she knows every other passenger on the train; there was Marley, who taught her how to cook decent spaghetti, and Evan, who gave her her first tattoo, and Eilis, and Maraeth, and Arthur and...

They vanish with a roaring gust of wind and smoke and fire. 

Gwynn jerks awake to a hammering on her door. 

"You there! Where are those papers?!"

Startled, she checks her phone. It's five o'clock in the afternoon. She's slept through the whole day. 

"Fuck," she mutters vehemently, scrabbling to get up and answer the door. The manager is saying something about unlocking it himself. "Just a second!"

She manages to open the door and gets an earful about time wasted for her trouble. Apologising profusely, she fills out the papers as quickly as she can. Some of the questions are easier to answer than others. Bank details, date of birth ... but then _'What is your income?' 'Do you have a criminal record?' How the fuck am I supposed to..._ Frantically she scribbles something down. Sera will probably help her out if he decides to look into her background. _I'm relying on her too much,_ Gwynn thinks, heart sinking slightly.

Sera had shrugged it off when they'd spoken on the phone earlier. "Right now, you're little people." Whatever that meant.

Handing the papers to the still-scowling Roderick, she realises that someone else is in the corridor: a broad-shouldered elf dressed in a lumpy jumper and sporting a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He's digging around in his pocket, presumably for his keys. He is also completely bald.

Staring fascinated at his head proves to be a bad idea, because he notices. He meets her eyes and quirks a brow at her, his expression challenging and unimpressed at the same time, and Gwynn flushes bright red. 

"Well, that all seems to be in order," Roderick says, disgruntled. The bald elf is now putting his key to the lock next door -- so he lives in 4A. Fantastic. 

Gwynn drags her eyes back to Roderick. "If that's all...?"

Roderick is folding the forms. "Rent is due fortnightly. The first payment will be extracted from your account on the twenty-fifth. Good evening, Miss Lavellan." He leaves, striding as fast as his old man legs will take him to the elevator. 

Mr. Next-door has it open, but he pauses before he enters his apartment. His eyes rest on her shoulder, and she realises self-consciously that her shirt has sloped, revealing her tattoos. She fixes her collar, cheeks pink.

His meets her eyes impassively. “You’ll get used to Roderick,” he says, and she starts at how deep and rich his voice is. “I rarely interact with him myself. Your name?”

“Huh...?”

“Your name is ‘Huh’?” he says, smiling for the first time. 

Oh gods. She’s an idiot. She presses her hands to her forehead, face screwed up in embarrassment. It must be the lack of sleep. “It’s Gwynn. You know, like Gwynneth Paltrow.”

“Not like the Guinevere of Arthurian legend?”

She peeks out at him from between her fingers, surprised, then drops her hands to her sides again. “No ... not quite that ... fancy.” 

He laughs softly, and it’s nice, and over far too quickly. “And what is a Dalish elf doing so far from her clan?”

She tenses, and he sees it, but his face is blank again before she can grasp the flicker of emotion that passed over it. “I’m ... looking for work,” she says slowly, inadequately.

“Oh? In what field?”

“Any. Anything, at the moment.”

He looks at her silently for a moment, then says, “You might try the coffee shop down the road. The Gull and Lantern, it is called. I believe they are looking for help.”

“Thank you,” she says hesitantly, taking him in. He is dressed very plainly, but despite that he has an assured presence. He stands in the hallway as if he owns it, owns the whole building in fact. She realises he hasn’t yet given his name. 

Her mouth opens to ask, but she hesitates, and he gives her a half-smile. “My name is Solas. It is my pleasure, Gwynn.” He doesn’t offer his hand.

“Nice to meet you.” 

He nods once. “Welcome to Haven.” Then he turns to his apartment and closes the door behind him. 

She stands still for a moment, confused. Had he been warm or cool? Disapproving or kind? How old was he, anyway? 

“You seem to enjoy standing still in hallways.”

She looks over her shoulder to see the biker woman from earlier. She’s in a casual blue shirt, but the colour reminds Gwynn of something ... 

Gwynn pales. A cop. The woman is a cop. A cop, and staring straight at her with a puzzled expression. “Are you alright?” she asks.

“Scaring the children again, Officer?” A dwarven man Gwynn hadn’t seen is standing behind the cop. He gives Gwynn a friendly smile, ignoring the other woman’s scowl. “New tenant? Varric Tethras.” 

_That_ gets Gwynn’s attention. “The author?”

“One and the same,” he says, offering her his hand. She shakes it, smiling. To think she’d meet one of her favourite authors in this crummy block! Well, she supposes, just because he’s one of her favourites doesn’t mean that he’s rich. Maybe this is all he can afford.

“I am Cassandra Pentaghast,” says the woman, offering her hand too. “I apologise for my abruptness this morning ... and ... well, just now.” She looks a little awkward, and Gwynn takes pity on her, even if she is a cop.

“It’s alright, I guess I just startle easily,” Gwynn says, taking her hand too. Cassandra’s hand is long-fingered and fine, starkly different from Varric’s. “I’m Gwynn Lavellan.”

“Met many other people in the block yet?” Varric asks. “Most of Haven’s residents know each other, so you’ll be quite the point of interest for a few days.”

“I’ve met a woman named Leliana and ...” Gwynn looks behind her at the door to 4A. “Solas. I didn’t get his last name.”

“Ah. Enigmatic guy. He’s kind of aloof. I thought it might be an elf thing but you seem pretty friendly.” He grins, joking. 

Gwynn half smiles. So far, amazingly, no-one, not even the dour building manager Roderick, has called her rabbit, or worse, knife-ear. She wonders if people are more accepting in the city, or if the slurs will come later. “Are Solas and I the only elves here?”

“Yeah, it’s mostly humans in Haven. We have a qunari down on the second floor, and a few dwarves.” He checks his watch. “I have to go. Think you can release me for a couple hours while I see my editor, Officer?” His voice is slightly barbed, and Cassandra huffs.

“For the last time, you are no prisoner, Varric. And do not call me that, I am no longer ...” She gives a frustrated sigh at Varric’s smirk. 

Varric winks at Gwynn as he passes her. “See you round, Inky.” 

Gwynn blinks, but before she can ask what he meant by that he has stepped into the waiting elevator. Gwynn looks at Cassandra. “Inky?”

“For your tattoos, I imagine. Do not pay it mind, it is his...” Her hand cuts the air agitatedly as she tries to find the words. “His whim. To give everyone nicknames. Mine is ‘Officer’, as I used to be one, which I suppose could be worse.” 

“So he asked for my name just to give me one he made up?” She grins. 

Cassandra smiles reluctantly. “He is strange like that.” She sighs but then looks at Gwynn thoughtfully. “If you would like, I am about to have dinner with Leliana and a few others. There is a decent Mexican place just off Calenhad. Are you new to the city?”

“I am.” Gwynn finds it is easy to fall into step beside Cassandra. The woman seems to sweep her along with nothing more than the strength of her stride, as if she were the current and Gwynn a bobbing boat. _Careful,_ her inner voice whispers. _When Cassandra finds out what you are, she may not be so welcoming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided that Gwynn would have at least one contact in the city, and that contact would be the ever contactable Sera, for obvious reasons, at least one of those reasons being because I love her. Aside from that, this is very much a new-beginnings kind of story.
> 
> Solavellan just screams to be written AU, because despite the romance leaving Lavellan (and me) heartbroken, I just can't bring myself to change anything about it. As for whether or not this story will have a happy ending for them -- you will have to wait to find out ;) (but yeah it probably will).
> 
> But this story will be about all the characters and their relationships with Gwynn and with each other. It will definitely be a slow burn and written in more a slice of life style than anything else, so hopefully those will appeal to you.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Wandering Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwynn meets the advisors, and reunites with Sera.
> 
> Quite a bit of Sera/Lavellan in this chapter.

***

_Don’t let your guard down, and don’t take pity._

_If someone attacks you and your life is on the line, then you take your knife and you cut them down without a second thought._

 

***

 

Cassandra and Leliana’s friends turn out to be a tall blond man in his late thirties and a lovely young Spanish woman. The man, Cullen, is an ex-prison guard, a friend from Cassandra’s days as an Inspector, Gwynn finds out. He now works part time at an office in the more up-market suburb of Orlais. "It's pretty much just ordering people around and answering the phone," Cullen gripes. He's smiling though, like he doesn't mind it. Josephine works at the Spanish embassy, and is a school friend of Leliana’s. 

Leliana seems the odd one out, as a musician, but she is strangely in tune with her friends’ respective careers. She also seems to know everyone, or some tidbit about them. She can name half of the patrons in the Mexican restaurant they’re eating at and give rumours about the other half. Gwynn decides she is either the world’s best spy or the world’s biggest gossip. Later that night, Leliana adds her on Facebook. Gwynn's stunned trawl through her page shows she really does seem to know everyone. Celebrities, politicians, artists, people Gwynn vaguely recognises but can't name. 

It turns out that Cassandra is a removalist, of all things. “It is easy work,” she says dismissively, noticing Gwynn’s surprise. “You just have to be strong and drive a truck.”

“But you have a bike.”

“That is my passion, not my occupation,” Cassandra says, giving her a slanted smile. 

Gwynn doesn’t ask why Cassandra left the police force, if leave she did.

She is surprised to find out that Josephine and Cullen live at Haven too. When she asks why, they both look slightly uncomfortable. 

"It's just the best place for me at the moment," Cullen says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Josephine smiles. "It is easy to travel to work from Haven." 

_An odd group to be living in rental housing,_ she muses, pleasantly buzzing from the bottle of Spanish red that Josephine has brought along. After they finish up, Gwynn asks if she can keep the empty wine bottle. "As a keepsake," she says, face burning at their indulgent smiles. She is something of a collector, though her old magpie nests are destroyed or abandoned now. Josephine hands the bottle to her and she cradles to her chest as they pay for their meals. _Last luxury,_ Gwynn thinks. The burrito had been delicious, but until she got a job she would have to be careful with her tiny reserve of cash. 

She walks back to Haven with them, enjoying Josephine and Leliana’s banter. Either her nap from earlier or the cool night air has left her invigorated. She feels awake and alive. Her old life feels like a dream.

“Are you cold?” Cullen asks. He is already removing his scarf to give to her before Gwynn realises she is trembling, almost shaking. She is not sure if it’s nervous excitement or cold. 

“No, thank you. I’m enjoying it.” She gives him a smile, and though he gives her a quizzical look, he seems satisfied.

 

When she gets back, there is a surprise waiting for her. A tiny, blonde, maniacally-grinning surprise.

“Alright, Trailer-trash?” Sera says. She’s dressed in her usual threadbare t-shirt and skin-tight leather pants. It always surprises Gwynn to see Sera wearing ballet flats; she seems more like the combat boots type of person. She throws an arm around Gwynn’s shoulders and pulls her into a neck-breakingly tight hug.

“Sera!” Gwynn tries to extract herself, then gives up and wraps her arms around Sera’s skinny ribcage. The last time she had seen her irascible friend was over a year ago, and while Sera is sometimes hard work to know, she is also genuinely fun. “How did you get into my apartment?”

“Puh-lease. Pissy little lock like that? I let myself in.” Sera releases her, looking around with a smirk that makes Gwynn want to check the place for booby-traps. “Shite place you got here. Shit-house. Hah, get it?”

“You’re the one who found it for me,” Gwynn says with an exasperated laugh. 

Sera’s head whips around and she puts a hand on her hip. “And what thanks do I get for it, eh? Some tetchy Dalish who wants me to ‘be polite’ and ‘not kill someone’ for it.” Sera makes quotation marks in the air with her fingers, scowling.

Gwynn ducks her head. “Sorry. I am grateful.”

Sera rolls her eyes. “I’m not asking you to lie down and lick my toes ... although.” Her eyes shine, wicked. She steps up to Gwynn and tucks her hands into Gwynn’s jacket pockets. “Wanna go have some fun?”

Gwynn looks up quickly. “I’m not doing anything illegal,” she says, voice low. “There are cops and stuff in this building. I can’t be involved in anything--”

“Ugh.” Sera puts her hand over Gwynn’s mouth. “Shut up. I was talking about clubbing, Lavellan, clubbing.”

“Clubbing,” Gwynn repeats after Sera takes her hand away. She watches as Sera flits away and begins to ransack Gwynn’s bag.

“Yeah. You know, dancing and drinking and sticky floors and tripping over drunk people...”

“You make it sound so appealing.”

“Oh, don’t be such a fuckin’ killjoy.” Sera picks up a shirt and throws it aside. “Don’t you have anything more sexy? What is this, fishing gear??”

Gwynn gives a short sigh and submits to Sera’s aggressive styling. She has a feeling that one way or another, she won’t be getting much sleep tonight.

 

The club is a short tram ride away. When they get there it's crowded, dark, and smells of beer and sweat, but by the time Gwynn has had two shots of rum and a pint of ale she doesn’t care. 

It is soon clear that Sera has chosen this particular bar because she has a crush on the dwarven bartender, a pretty freckled woman with a kind, shy smile. Sera is brash and brusque in turn. Gwynn has no doubt that the bartender has no idea how to take her advances. 

The bar has a large population of elves, for which Gwynn is thankful. She is still unused to being around so many humans. For a while they just sit at the bar, surrounded by warm, gentle light. Sera blusters and euphemisms her way through a conversation with the confused bartender. 

A city elf takes the seat on her other side. “Dalish, right?” he asks, gesturing to her tattoos. She gives him a careful nod, but it seems his interest is just an excuse to talk to her. He asks her to dance, and Gwynn politely turns him down, shying away from his offered hand. He nods acquiescence and leaves her be, much to her relief. 

She busies herself with her drink until Sera gives up and tugs Gwynn to the dance floor, frustration built up in every line of her body. Gwynn barely notices. She’s a lightweight. She’s never had the chance to let loose like this before and gods, it feels good, it feels _fantastic_. Sera’s wild dancing seems to inspire the crowd, or maybe they’ve all just reached the same level of inebriation. 

The bass thrums through her core until she feels like a string wound taut enough to snap. Sera’s eyes meet hers. Her crush on the bartender doesn’t stop Sera from pushing Gwynn against the wall and locking their open mouths together, her hands bunched in Gwynn’s hair. And Gwynn kisses her back, because that’s just how Sera is, and that’s just what they do sometimes. It’s easy to match her passion when it feels so nice. And maybe, coiled deep and dark inside her like a rope in a well, she is glad of the distraction.

There’s a short scream from behind them, angry shouting, and Gwynn and Sera break away from each other. A fight has broken out in the crowd. A brief glance into the foray reveals elves and humans at each other’s throats.

Every one of her senses zeroes in on the fight. A man’s fist connects with another’s jaw. Her palms ache. Blood pours down an elf’s chin. Sweat beads her forehead. Deep within the crush of bodies, there’s the flash of a knife.

But before Gwynn can figure whether to fight or flee, Sera has grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the panicked, surging crowd. 

They burst through the back door into an alley. Sera drags her back to Haven, muttering all the way about drunk idiots. Gwynn trips once and almost falls flat on her face, and the shock startles her into helpless fits of laughter. 

“Shut it,” Sera says worriedly. 

She covers her mouth. “S-sorry.”

She stifles her laughter in her sleeve as they fumble with her new keys. Reaching her apartment, they fall onto her unmade bed. Sera curls in close and Gwynn snuggles into her warmth gratefully.

“You don’t even have sheets?”

“I didn’t really have time to grab sheets, Sera.”

Sera props her head up on her hand. “What happened, really?”

“No.”

Sera is completely still, and for a second Gwynn thinks she's angry. But then she smooths a hand over Gwynn’s hair, the gentlest she’s ever been. “... Easy, Lavellan.”

Gwynn draws in a great shuddering breath and lets it out in a rush. 

When it seems that Sera isn’t going to ask her any more, she relaxes, bit by bit. Her breathing slows. She can feel Sera’s heartbeat on her back as Sera curls around her again. Sera draws Gwynn’s coat up over them both and presses her cold feet against Gwynn’s warm ones until Gwynn squirms away. 

“Stop it!”

Sera sniggers. She kisses Gwynn's neck, and Gwynn doesn't push her away. Desire flickers in her stomach.

"The walls are really thin here," Gwynn murmurs, a half protest. 

"Then let's give 'em something to talk about, yeah?"

 

Late morning sunlight awakens her.

Her jacket slips off her as she sits up. She looks around, rubbing mascara into her eyes. 

Sera is already gone. She’s placed Gwynn’s Spanish wine bottle near the window. For a moment Gwynn just stares at it, watching the light play through the glass, casting a bright green shadow on the floor. 

Her head really, really hurts.

She has her first shower, tolerating its stuttering pressure, thankful for the heat. She tries to fix the makeup she had hastily applied last night, then scrubs it off with a sigh. She’s never been good at applying it herself. Dressed in the cleanest, least rumpled outfit she can find, she opens her door. 

Solas is standing just outside, locking his own door. 

Their eyes meet. His gaze holds an avid kind of curiosity, and then the next second he glances away. There's a faint pink tinge to his cheeks. 

Oh, _fuck_. He heard. He definitely heard. Gwynn wonders if there's steam coming out of her ears, her face feels that hot. She ducks her head and stutters a good morning, and when she looks up he looks perfectly composed again. 

"Good morning, Gwynn." There's a beat, and then the corners of his lips tilt slightly upwards. "Sleep well?" 

She almost chokes on her own tongue. Her head is definitely on fire now. "Wow, we're not even going to keep up a polite pretence?" 

A proper smile lights his face, and he gives one of his short, addictive laughs. "We can if you wish."

"Oh, forget it, it’s too late now.” She can’t withhold a semi-pleased, horribly embarrassed grin. “I’ll be sure to return the favour when you have a lady friend over.”

Solas chuckles and shakes his head. “It won’t happen.”

“Man friend then?”

“No friends.” 

“Aww, none?” Her grin is slow and promising, her mouth quicker than her mind can keep up with. “I’ll be your friend.”

His eyes travel over her face to her collarbone and back, and he tilts his head. His smile is considering. Something flips over in Gwynn’s belly, something that definitely shouldn’t be flipping from the attention of her bald next-door neighbour. “I’d like that,” he says.

Gwynn’s jaw drops.

His eyes crinkle like he’s trying not to laugh. Then he is bidding her good day, and swinging his the strap of his satchel over his shoulder. She watches as he patiently waits for the elevator and steps inside.

She is left alone in the corridor, hand over her mouth to cover her wide, bewildered, shit-eating grin.


	3. Forest Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwynn strives to make Haven a home, but her past won't let her go that easily.

_You can be my First, Gwynn._

_Isn't it called a Second?_

_You're too good to be Second._

 

***

 

Even hungover as she is, there are things that need doing. She can keep up her track record of standing around in hallways, or she can get moving and make the most of her day. 

And it _is_ beautiful outside, the sky bright as a jewel with only a few clouds scuffling along the horizon. If only the sunlight didn't make her head hurt quite so much. She needs coffee, so she takes the opportunity to survey the coffee shop Solas had mentioned.

The Gull and Lantern. It’s a hole-in-the wall style coffee shop, industrial except for the comfortable looking armchairs and potted plants near the roller door. A quick glance around makes her stomach sink; it’s mostly humans. Nervous and cowed, she is about to leave, but then someone calls out her name. 

She is pleased to find that Josephine is sitting in the back, sipping a black coffee with a notepad open in front of her. She waves Gwynn over, closing the notebook with a smile. “Good morning, Gwynn. Sleep well?”

Gwynn thinks back to Solas’ comment and tilts her head. The motion makes her headache spike. She winces. “Sort of.”

Josephine hides a smile behind her hand. “I see. And what are your plans for today? Just recovery?” 

Gwynn chuckles, sitting across from her. “I need to go shopping. I didn’t bring much with me.” She scratches her head, looking away. “How about you?"

"Just finishing some notes. I don't have to be in at work for another hour." Josephine checks a gold watch on her wrist, frowning. "Although I will need to leave soon. By the way, you said you were looking for work, yes?" 

Gwynn blinks, taken aback by the sudden change in topic. "Yes ... Why?"

"What are your skills?" Josephine's pen is poised, as if she's about to take notes. Gwynn feels absurdly like she is in an interview. 

"Well, I'm ... I've done waitressing work before. I have good balance and ...” _I can fight._ “... And I can read and write well.”

“Are you good with computers?”

Gwynn grimaces. “Not so much. A can use them and type fine, but I'm no good at troubleshooting ... But I am a quick learner. I thought I might apply here, but ...”

“But?”

“Well ... I don’t know if they’d want ...” She hesitates. “... I don’t know how to make coffee.”

Josephine smiles. “Do you drink it?”

“Yeah. There was a guy in our clan, an ex-city elf, actually, who made the best coffee. Turkish style, really dark and rich and ...”

Josephine nods sagely. “That is the way I like it, too.” She twists in her seat, ordering a coffee from one of the cafe staff for Gwynn. He calls Josephine by her name, and offers Gwynn a smile. 

"Don't worry about being an elf," Josephine says, clearly not fooled by Gwynn's change of subject. "Apply anyway." She takes a sip of coffee. "They can't afford to offend Leliana and me by being prejudiced."

"Leliana and you...?"

"My parents used to own this building. And while we may not run it any longer, the Montiliyets could make business very hard for them if we wished." She smiles, almost impishly. "Leliana also has her ways. If you feel that you have been treated unfairly, just let me know."

For a moment Gwynn is speechless. "You'd do that for someone you just met?"

Josephine frowns. "It is not a matter of connections. It is a matter of equality. Although I suppose connections don't hurt..." she adds musingly. 

_But you don't even know me,_ Gwynn's inner voice wails. Her face turns red, shamed by Josephine's kindness. "...Thank you, Josephine."

"Think nothing of it." She smiles. "It was truly a pleasure to meet you last night. Cullen and the others agree that you are welcome to join us for Mexican any time you wish."

Gwynn can't suppress a beaming smile at that. "Thank you, Josephine."

 

After bidding Josephine farewell and drinking the rest of her coffee (it's not like Willem used to make it, but it's good), Gwynn goes to a thrift shop. She buys sheets, cutlery, plates, pots and pans. She doesn't think she trusts the thrift shop pillows and comforters, which can't easily be washed, so she buys them from the supermarket she goes to next. Toothpaste, soap, washing powder, dish-washing detergent, and groceries follow that. 

She stops off at the fruit and vegetable market near the bus stop on the way home and buys soup ingredients. She belatedly realises she forgot to buy spices. The smiling strawberry-seller is there, so Gwynn buys strawberries and apples as well. The woman grins and gives her a mandarin, saying, "Try it, try it. Sweet, yes? Buy them next time."

"You're Dalish?" Another of the venders says. He has dark hair, and nods politely to her. "Andaran atish'an." 

Gwynn smiles widely at him. "I am. Andaran atish'an. Your accent gives you away." 

He smirks. "As does yours." 

She looks him over. He's tall and wiry, with strength enough in his arms that he might have practiced archery had he still lived with his clan. He has no tattoos, but there were some even in Gwynn's clan who chose to honour their gods in less obvious ways. 

"What brings you to the city?" she asks cautiously. 

He gives her a kind half-smile. "Many things, but none of them are necessarily light conversation, lethallan." 

She nods slowly. Of course, most Dalish did not easily part from their family and clan. She wonders all the same. Had he refused their way of life? Had he been cast out, as she had been? The thought makes her flinch. She gives him a crooked smile and murmurs, "Dareth shiral." 

As she's walking away, he calls her back. "Hey. Be careful around here, especially at night. The city is rough, and a lone Dalish girl is an easy target."

She half turns back to him. "Not an easy one, but a target, maybe."

He shakes his head like he thinks she's being cocky. "... What's your name, lethallan?"

"Gwynn," she answers, almost without thought. 

"I'm Tav." He taps a finger to his forehead before turning back to help his coworkers. "Keep your wits about you, Gwynn."

 

Back at Haven, she stands still for a moment, heart beating rapidly. Her encounter with Tav has left her rattled for reasons she can't identify. He is too familiar, she thinks; his easy grace, the lilting accent, even the strong bridge of his nose. He is too familiar, and she has met him too soon. 

She washes her new sheets and her dirty clothes in Haven's communal laundry. There is a row of washing machines and a row of driers, and she eats strawberries from the punnet while she waits. 

The laundry door clatters open to reveal the one and only Varric Tethras. Gwynn hastily wipes strawberry juice from her mouth, vaguely anxious that he'll think she's some sort of barbarian for eating in the laundry, but he just gives her a smirk. "Hey there, Inky. Settling in okay?" 

"Oh. Y-yeah." She offers him the strawberries after he puts his clothes in the machine. 

"Oh, thanks." He takes a strawberry and pops it in his mouth, leaves and all. Gwynn stares. For some reason she can't equate this strawberry devouring dwarf with her favourite author. She feels star struck and let down at the same time. 

"So," he says casually. "Who'd you bring home last night?"

"What?" 

Varric grins. "We're a gossipy bunch. You can't get anything past Leliana and Josephine, anyway."

Gwynn groans. "So the whole building knows I had sex last night? That's just great."

He starts to laugh. "Who said anything about sex? All I heard was you and a friend getting back at three in the morning, and not nearly as quietly as you seemed to think." He takes another strawberry. 

Gwynn covers her face with her hands. "I'm sorry," she says, voice muffled. "I don't do that often."

Varric shrugs. "No big deal. How’s the hangover?" 

"... Hurts like hell." 

"That'll teach you to get drunk on a weeknight," he says, grinning. He's teasing her, she can tell, but she still feels like the embarrassment is going to cook her alive. 

They stand there for a while, leaning against the machines, taking turns to pick strawberries from the punnet. Varric chats aimlessly, telling her about the area, and eventually Gwynn relaxes enough to start asking questions. 

"You're on the fourth floor too?"

"Yep, 4E."

"Do you know everyone in Haven well?" 

"Not as well as I'd like. Except for Cassandra, who I know more than I'd like."

Gwynn smiles, bemused. "What's between you and her?" 

"Ahh..." Varric waves his hand. "It's kind of a long story. Basically, a friend of mine was involved in some trouble a while back. Cassandra got involved, and I guess that _technically_ he's wanted..."

"What?" Gwynn asks, startled. "By the police?"

"No, by the Spanish Inquisition. Yeah, by the police." He gives her a grin, raises an eyebrow. "You've read Tale of the Champion, right?"

"But that's a fantasy story..."

"Shit, Inky, I thought everyone knew that it was based on real people."

"All that stuff actually happened?" Gwynn gapes at him. 

"Well, put it in a swords and sorcery type setting ..." He shrugs. "A lot of it is made up." 

"So ... you knew a Dalish, then?"

"That's what you're interested in?" Varric's grin softens a bit. "Yep, I did. Sweet kid. You remind me of her a lot. Sheltered, kind of ditzy. She wasn't as into wild, early morning sex-scapades though."

Gwynn gives a scandalised snort. "You truly know how to compliment a woman, Mister Tethras."

"I try."

Gwynn's washing machine beeps and she pulls her clothes out to put them in the dryer. Settling back against the washing machine, she puts her hand in the punnet to find it empty. 

Varric looks mildly guilty. "Oops. Thanks for the strawberries."

She laughs. "Consider them my apology for waking you up. And a bribe, to stop talking about my sex life."

"Broke the ice, didn't it?"

Gwynn tilts her head, smiling. "I suppose. Still, there are people I'd rather not hear about my 'sex-scapades'."

"Like who?"

"I don't know ... Josephine?"

"Josie wouldn't care. She'd probably want you to give her a blow-by-blow." He winces. "Not what I meant..."

"Cullen, then."

"... Can't argue with that. It'd probably just get him all flustered."

That makes her smile. "Really? Maybe we should tell him then..." 

Varric grins. "You're going to be fun. So you met Cullen and Josephine?"

"Yesterday. Cassandra introduced us." She fidgets with the empty punnet. "I like them a lot." 

He's watching her hands curiously, but gives her a disarming smile when she looks at him. "They're easy to like." 

When her washing is dry, she bundles it into the bag and awkwardly bows out of the conversation. Varric lets her go with a wave. 

She forgot to ask him about his nicknaming. 

In her apartment she puts her new items away. She has no fridge, but luckily nothing that really needs it yet. Still, it is another thing she'll have to organise later, and pay for. Sighing, she surveys the state of the main room. 

The foldout couch nearly reaches the tiles where the kitchen starts. After a moment of thought, she pulls the mattress off and folds the couch back up. She pushes the it into a corner before replacing the pillows. The mattress she puts next to it, on the floor. The wire frame of the folding couch was a lot harder on her back than the floor will be. She makes up her bed with the sheets and comforter, and when that's done, the apartment is looking half presentable. 

Gwynn upends the grocery box to make it into a table, putting it next to her bed. She forgot to buy cups, but she washes out Josephine's wine bottle to use as a water bottle. She's hungry now, but too tired to do more than spread some butter on bread and munch it slowly, looking out the window. 

The blind really is ugly. 

 

She's in a forest, but the trees are caravans, twenty feet tall and towering over her head. Nothing about this is strange. In fact, everything is as it should be. 

Willem's dog is barking at her from inside his trailer. She tries to reach the door handle, but it's too high up. No matter how high she stretches, the handle just seems higher. The dog's barking becomes agitated, panicked. There's a roaring somewhere, like a great gust of wind rushing through the treetops, and Gwynn looks up to see that the forest is a real one now, and it is burning. 

There are figures in the trees, screaming.

She opens her eyes. The roaring is her blood pounding in her ears. Her mouth is open, dry, her throat sore. Her chest heaves as she gasps for breath. 

It takes her a moment to remember where she is. She had fallen asleep, fully clothed, on her bed, and the sky has grown dark outside. Barely able to think, just moving on impulse and from the need of fresh air, Gwynn grabs her bag and runs out of the apartment. As she bolts for the stairs at the end of the hallway, she thinks she hears a door open behind her, but she doesn’t stop until she’s far away and surrounded by cool, dark, soothing night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of this chapter, and thank you to everyone who has commented so far! It means a lot to me. 
> 
> I had a bit of trouble deciding how to break this chapter up, because I think it's important to show how Gwynn gets to know the other characters, but I didn't want it to be too long.
> 
> If you have any questions/feedback about this story or the AU please don't hesitate to let me know!


	4. Nowhere to Run, Somewhere to Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwynn runs into some trouble.

_You're punching all wrong, Gwynn. Make a fist -- there, thumb outside, lead with the knuckles of your index and -- oof! There, you got it!_

 

***

 

Eventually Gwynn stops running. 

She stoops in the middle of an empty street, hands on her knees, panting for breath. Her chest burns with every sharp inhale. The night is still and quiet around her, and with a growing sense of regret she realises she has no idea where she is. 

_What the fuck am I doing,_ she thinks, groping through her pockets to find her phone. _Running out like a scared deer, and why? Because of a bad dream?_

Alarm replaces the regret when she can't find her phone. Her hands quicken, checking every pocket again before she remembers. It's charging in her apartment. So now she has no map either. At least she has her keys.

She straightens, looking around warily. She has no idea how far she ran, for how long, which route she took. It's easy enough to turn around and walk back the way she came, but when she reaches her first fork in the road she doesn't know which way to go. Hesitantly, she chooses a path and wanders. 

As she walks, she tries not to think about fire. _Focus on getting back to Haven_ , she tells herself, _and then you can deal with this sudden phobia._ Her unease grows when she realises she doesn't know what time it is. It's pitch black above the muted glow of the street lamps, so it must be quite late. 

She keeps careful track of the path she takes so she can turn back if need be. If she can just get back to Calenhad Way she'll know where to go from there...

Despite the precariousness of her situation, she does feel a certain thrill, slinking through the darkness like a cat on the prowl. This is her element. This is what an elf should be; deadly silence and shadows in the alleys. She's so caught up in her own prowl that she almost doesn't realise that there are people ahead. By the time she does, they have spotted her already. They close around her, hyenas to her cat and ready to pounce. 

They're human males, all four of them. They have red scarves tied to their arms. A gang, then. The Red Jennies? Gwynn doubts it. Sera never wore a scarf, after all. She can tell from their swagger that they've been drinking, but at least two of them are on something else, too. They're sharp and high, their movements too erratic and fast for alcohol. 

"What are you doing out at night, knife-ear?" one of them calls out to her. They are still a little distance from her, and she might be able to make a run for it, but she's aware that they're shepherding her too. Before she can grasp a break in formation they have guided her into an alley. She looks behind her to see two more men at the far end, leaning against the walls. They look up when they hear their companions and begin walking towards her, their group closing around her like teeth. 

_Time for some fast thinking, Lavellan._ A voice, soft and amused, sounds in her head. She tries to ignore it, but it speaks again. _Play it safe, hit their weaknesses, and take 'em all out._

The two behind her are the safer bet, so she turns and strides towards them with enough intent that one of them stops. She lunges in, coming down hard on his nose with the heel of her hand, and whirls to intercept the panicked grab from the other. She grips his hand and bends his finger back, hard. It snaps. He screams. 

_Run, now!_

She takes two steps, but the first man grabs her ankle as she tries to pass, blood streaming from his nose. She falls with a thud and a yelp, scraping her hands as he yanks her back towards him. He grins at her, bloodshot eyes visible even the dark. 

The others have made it to her now. _That's what you get for trying to let them off with just a broken nose and finger._

"Fuckin' knife-ear," one of them snarls. He grabs her wrists and jerks her upright, but she lashes out with her free leg and kicks him in the groin. He releases her with a howl of pain and goes down like a stone. 

"Get her legs!" Broken-nose yells, voice nasal.

The uninjured three descend on her, two of them managing to grab her arms, another braving her kicking to get her legs. She lets out a scream of frustration as they pin her to the ground. She struggles, but they have the advantage of height and weight and number, and she can't free her limbs. 

Broken-nose appears above her, leering. His blood drips on her face and she flinches away from it. 

"You, my pretty, have been far too much trouble." He settles over her, grabs her jaw, avoiding her snapping with a deftness that scares her. "We were just going to relieve you of your wallet, rabbit. But then you had to go ahead and _break my fucking nose!_ " 

His face distorts with sudden rage, and he draws his arm back, hand forming into a fist. 

Gwynn’s mind goes into overdrive. 

His other hand still holds her jaw. He'll probably let go of her right before he hits her. That will be her chance to move her head, and he'll break his hand on the fucking concrete. 

His fist descends, and his other hand isn't moving. She refuses to break eye contact, waiting for her chance. He’s not going to let her go. He’s not going to...

The blow never hits. 

A gigantic fist has connected with broken-nose's jaw, followed by a wrist, forearm, elbow and bicep in a perfect arc. Broken-nose is lifted right off her and lands with a thud almost six feet away from her. She follows his flight, eyes wide with surprise. 

Then the pressure is gone from her hands and feet, as a huge bear of a man takes on the remaining gang members. He clobbers two of their heads together and knocks another in the temple. She stands shakily, meaning to help him, but by the time she has gotten to her feet he is done, no worse for wear except for a single swelling black eye. 

"Come on," he says, holding his hand out to her. She hears the sprawled gang members stir, and thoughtlessly takes his hand. He pulls her along, running until they're both puffing. As they slow down, she realises with a start that they're back on Frostback street, right near the carpenter's. 

Relief drops her. She sinks to the ground, limbs shaking. 

"You alright, lass?" The man asks gruffly. 

She looks up. Now that they're on a street with better lighting she can see that he has a dark beard and longish dark hair. A bear, indeed. He’s unlocking the door to the carpenter’s workshop as he speaks to her.

"They didn't hurt you, did they?"

"No..." Gwynn says. 

The man grunts, putting a hand against her clammy cheek. "Shock." He hauls her up into his arms, ignoring her squeak of surprise, and carries her into the carpenters. 

_He must live here,_ Gwynn thinks absently. Not one part of her questions whether she should be letting a man she just met carry her into a workshop presumably full of sharp instruments. She peeks up into his face, sees the beginnings of his black eye. “I’m sorry you got hurt on my account,” she says.

“Don’t worry yourself over it.” He sets her down in a chair and flicks on the lights. Their glow feels very warm. “Have you eaten anything recently?” the man asks. He’s putting a blanket around her shoulders before she can protest. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

“No,” Gwynn realises. No wonder she feels so faint. The only thing she’s eaten that day is bread and butter. Right on cue, her stomach growls angrily.

The man huffs a little. He moves towards the back of the room and flicks on another light, walking into a small kitchen. Gwynn can hear him moving around in there, and after a while she slowly begins to feel warm again. She hadn’t realised how cold she was without the rush of adrenaline from the fight warming her veins. 

The man emerges with a plate of cheese and bread and fruit, which he plonks it down on the table in front of her. “Here. Eat up.” He watches her nibble at it for a while, then says, “What’s your name, lass?”

“Gwynn.”

“I’m Blackwall.” His gaze searches her. “Got anywhere to stay?” He must be concerned by her Dalish tattoos. Perhaps he thinks she’s wandered away from her clan.

The thought that this stranger, this shemlen, might care about that draws a hysterical bubble of laughter from her. She puts her hand over her mouth, but keeps eating when he nudges the plate towards her. “I live just down the road,” she eventually manages to say. “At 180, the block of apartments.” 

“Ah. Haven.” 

“Yes.” 

“What were you doing out so late at night, Gwynn, if you have a place?”

“I didn’t realise how late it was,” Gwynn says, trying not to laugh. It’s the truth, in a way. Her phone is still in her apartment.

He sighs and sits down opposite her. He watches her eat. Then he says slowly, “Did you take down the first two before I got there?” At her nod, he whistles low. “Nice work. But it’s too dangerous around here to be walking around alone.”

Gwynn nods mutely. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to speak without dissolving into hysterical laughter or tears. 

She finishes eating. He takes her hand, leaving the blanket wrapped around her, and walks her back to Haven. She feels tremulous, edgy, the food churning uncomfortably in her stomach. When they get there, he walks her inside. 

She’s moving on autopilot, so it takes her a moment to realise that someone is there, waiting. Blackwall says, “You know this man, Gwynn?” and Gwynn lifts her head to see Solas standing in front of her. He’s peering into her face, and there is clear concern there, though he doesn’t make any move or try to speak to her.

“Solas,” she says. Solas steps up to Gwynn and rests his hand on her shoulder. 

Gwynn’s threatening tears begin to fall. She dashes them away, frustrated, trying to withhold a sob when Solas' hand squeezes her shoulder.

“What happened?” he asks. 

“Fought off some gang members. The ones with the red scarves, the lyrium dealers," Blackwall replies. 

"I know of them." 

Gwynn looks up at Blackwall, tries to give him a smile through her tears. "Thank you for helping me. It was very noble."

Blackwall looks uncomfortable. "Just don't put yourself in danger again." He pats her awkwardly on the head before he leaves. 

Solas wordlessly leads her towards the elevator while Gwynn tries not to sniff, but for the most part her tears fall in silence. When they're in the elevator Solas stands facing her, his hand over her shoulder and resting lightly against the back of her neck. She wants to wrap her arms around him and cry into his chest, but really, how much would he appreciate that? 

"I don't even know why I'm crying," she says aloud, trying to make light of it. Solas doesn’t reply, but his thumb strokes the back of her neck. 

The elevator pings and they walk to their apartments. Solas rests his hands on her shoulders and looks into her face.

"Will you be alright, da'len?" he asks. 

Something about hearing the endearment undoes her. Her shoulders sag and she raises her hands to cover her face, trying not to sob. Someone will hear. They'll probably think Solas is molesting her. 

Perhaps Solas is afraid of the same thing, as he opens the door to his apartment and leads her inside. Dropping his keys on a small table, he closes the door and then wraps his arms around her shaking shoulders. 

She clings onto him like a child, sobbing into his shirt, unable to stem the flow of her tears. He murmurs soothingly to her in fluid elvish. She has only heard the keeper of her clan speak so many words together before. She picks up 'da'len' and 'ir abelas', and then is lost in the gentle rhythm of the language. Her sobbing shudders to a stop and she sighs deeply. 

He takes that as a cue and pulls away from her, leading her to sit on a couch in his living room. It's still dark, as he has not yet turned on the lights, but the street lamps outside cast enough of a glow to illuminate some of the apartment. The couch is soft, undyed fabric, and potted plants are grouped around the window. His apartment is bigger than hers, his bed segregated slightly from the living room by a privacy screen. He sits beside her on the couch. 

"Better?" he asks softly.

"Were you waiting for me?" she says. 

Solas straightens slightly. The gloom makes his expression difficult to see. "I was."

"How did you know...?"

"I saw you run out. I went after you, but you were gone before I could follow." He hesitates. "I heard you scream. In your apartment."

"Scream?" No wonder her throat had been so sore.

"Yes. What happened?"

Gwynn takes a breath, saying inadequately, "I had a nightmare."

She half expects Solas to tease her, but he simply nods, raising a hand to brush the hair away from her face. He rests his hand by her cheek for a moment, then says, “If you’re feeling better, you should return to your apartment.” 

“Why?” she asks. There are a lot of reasons why she should, she knows, but she wants to know what he thinks.

He takes a moment to answer. “I know it must be hard, being away from your clan, but you should get used to sleeping alone. The city is all walls, lethallan. You’ll have to get used to them at some point.”

“You’re not Dalish,” she says, uncertain. He speaks far more elvish than most elves she knows.

“No, I am not. Neither am I a city elf.”

“What are you, then?” 

“That is a conversation for another time, when you are not so exhausted, and it is not––” he glances at a clock. “––nearly two in the morning.”

Gwynn wants to stay. But she doesn’t know what she’d do if she did. Fall asleep on the couch? Kiss him? Perhaps he is right, that she should return to her rooms. “Ma serranas, hahren.” 

He gives a little startled laugh, and she looks up at him curiously. He rubs his cheek, smiling. “No, I ... I just don’t know how I feel about being called ‘elder’, though I suppose in this case it is technically accurate.” 

He stands, taking her hand to pull her up after him. Blackwall’s blanket, half-forgotten, slips from her shoulder, and Solas rearranges it carefully. His finger draws a line along one of the tattoos by her neck, and suddenly the urge to stay with him is overwhelming. But then he moves away from her and leads her to the door. 

“We shall talk about this in the morning,” he says. “Try to get some sleep.”

“Yes, hahren.” Her voice has a hint of humour to it this time, and Solas smirks. 

He takes Gwynn to her door. After she has let herself inside, he bids her goodnight and returns to his own apartment.

Gwynn settles down in her bed, pulling the blankets around her. She’ll have to take the blanket she got from Blackwall back tomorrow, and think of some way to thank him. 

Tav was right about the city, she realises. She’s ashamed, but perhaps not for the reason she should be. She thought she was a good enough fighter to take on anyone. But, like Solas said, she has never been so alone before. 

“I don’t want to get used to it,” she murmurs to herself. She tries not to cry any more, thinking instead of Solas’ promise to talk the next day. With something to look forward to, her exhaustion quickly catches up with her, and sleep pulls her down into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the wonderful comments so far! They make it so much easier to keep writing, so please let me know if you're enjoying this, all feedback is welcome.


	5. Pastries and tattoos

_So what'll it be, Gwynn? Mythal, for protection? Andruil for the hunt ..._

_No. Falon'din. Falon'din, for Luca. If Fen'harel has truly shut Falon’din away, then I will be the friend of the dead._

 

***

 

Gwynn awakes with a thudding heart and a voiceless cry. Blinking rapidly, she puts her head in her hands, stifling a moan. More nightmares. More fire and fear.

She does not feel at all rested. She lies back down, unwilling to rise. Turning the events of the previous night over in her head, she flinches when she remembers how close to getting badly hurt she really was. 

And thinking of her behaviour with Solas makes her face burn with embarrassment. To think that she had bawled her eyes out into the chest of an almost stranger! She wouldn't be surprised if he thinks she is an unstable madwoman. Maybe she _is_ unstable. Gwynn is suddenly very glad that Solas had convinced her to sleep in her own bed. 

_I need to talk to him, apologise,_ she thinks, rolling out of bed. She walks barefoot to the bathroom, and realises on the way that there is a slip of paper near the door. She picks it up.

The handwriting is thin, looping, old-fashioned. She has a hunch who it is from almost immediately. 

_Gwynn,_ it reads. 

_I hope you slept well. I'm afraid I will have to break our promise to meet this morning; I have been called out to work and won't be available until the evening. Might we reschedule for tomorrow?_

_I've left my number below. If you need anything, let me know._

_Solas_

Gwynn shakes her head, inputting Solas' number into her phone. Leaving a note is a strangely sweet gesture. For a moment, Gwynn imagines him waking early enough to spare time for it, hurrying out the door with his lumpy jumper and satchel. The thought makes her smile, and she puts the note on the kitchen bench before heading to the bathroom. 

She wonders what his job is.

She half drowns herself in the shower, washes her hair and clips her nails and tries to make herself feel less like an exhausted wreck. Her hair is getting longer now. She puts it up in a short, blunt-ended ponytail and tries her hand at putting on some makeup. It doesn’t look as cool and spunky as Sera’s, but it’s something. She dresses in a grey shirt and black jeans and pulls on her favourite green cardigan.

Her ears prick up when she hears Josephine’s distinctive accent in the hallway, and she pokes her head out of her door to see Josephine, Leliana, Cassandra and Cullen, chattering as they walk. “Good morning,” she says with a smile.

“Ah, Gwynn!” Josephine says. “We’re going to the market, would you like to join us?”

Cassandra offers her a smile. “They sell everything very cheap on Saturday, as the market is closed Sundays.”

“Well in that case...” Gwynn gives them a grin and ducks back inside to get her bag and jacket. She also throws Blackwall’s blanket into a plastic bag to return to him on the way home.

The day has proved cold and a little rainy, tiny droplets of water clinging to the fibres of her jacket. The walk to the market feels very normal; there is something about this group of people that is competent and reassuring. They have a certain rhythm to their actions, as old friends do. Josephine and Leliana laugh and bicker in turns, debating everything from current affairs to fashion. When they ask for Gwynn’s opinion, she adds a few words aimed to fuel their debate, taking neither side. Leliana’s mouth twists into a wry smile when she does this, but Josephine laughs. 

Occasionally Cullen or Cassandra will add their bit too, but for the most part those two walk in comfortable quiet. Josephine and Leliana are sharp and witty enough to make Gwynn feel tongue-tied, so she is glad for Cullen and Cassandra’s reserve. They make it easy for Gwynn to fall in beside them even when she has nothing to say. 

The market is alive with activity despite the gloomy weather. Gwynn sees Tav and the strawberry seller, and nods to them. Tav gives her a friendly smile that makes her cheeks burn. He raises an eyebrow. Gwynn gives him a weak smile and looks away, hoping he doesn’t mistake her embarrassment at last night’s blunder for bashfulness. 

She buys a few things she’d forgotten yesterday. On Leliana’s recommendation, she also purchases two delicious looking Danish pastries to give to Blackwall. 

“The carpenter?” Leliana looks curious. “How did you meet him?”

“Well ...” Gwynn’s gaze drops. She doesn’t think Leliana will believe her if she lies, so she just says, “I ran into him last night.”

“Hmm. Well, alright then.” Leliana looks a little dubious. “Be careful.”

Gwynn tilts her head. “What do you mean?” 

“Well ... you sort of give off this lost lamb impression. We wouldn’t want the bear to eat you up, now, would we?” Leliana smiles, fast and wicked. Behind her, Cullen chokes on his coffee. 

“I do _not_ give off a lost lamb impression!” Gwynn laughs. 

“You kind of do,” Cassandra says bluntly. 

“Oh, sod off."

Cassandra just chuckles. 

 

Blackwall's workshop is dark; it seems he only works Monday to Friday. For a moment she wonders whether to leave, but then the Danishes would be no good, so she calls the number displayed on the door. To her relief, he answers. 

"Blackwall."

"Hi, Blackwall, ah ... It's Gwynn. Do you have a moment? I'm out the front of the shop..."

"Oh, Gwynn. Give me a second." He hangs up, and Gwynn waits patiently until she sees him walking through the shop. 

He opens the door and shows her inside. "Come through to the back, you can sit on something a bit more comfortable than the work chairs."

Now that she isn't numb with shock, she can take in more of Blackwall's workshop. At the front is a desk with a phone, cash register and an old computer. A few lovely chairs stand in the window, and a low table that looks as if it was made of driftwood is placed behind them. Gwynn smiles in appreciation, running her hand along the whorled wood. The proper workshop is behind them, and contains a variety of partially completed projects as well as a variety of tools. Gwynn can't put a name to many of them, but she does recognise a lathe, chisels and hand files. A staircase leads up from the main room, and Gwynn assumes that the rest of Blackwall’s home is on the second floor.

Behind the workshop is the kitchen, and Blackwall leads her there. She sits on a chair, simple but sturdy, and puts her gift on the small kitchen table. 

"I wanted to return the blanket you leant me, and to thank you again. It's not much ..."

Blackwall opens the cardboard box holding the Danishes and gives her a close-lipped smile. "Thank you, Gwynn. It really wasn't necessary, but ... Thank you. Hang on, I'll..." He begins to get two plates out and Gwynn waves her hand. 

"No, no," she says, "They're both for you."

"Don't be silly, lass," he says shortly. "Are you trying to make me fat?" He nods to the Danishes. "Do you want the blueberry or the apricot?"

"No, you choose. They're for you."

Blackwall snorts and pulls the blueberry one onto his own plate. He gives Gwynn a hard look when she doesn't pick up her Danish at first, and then relaxes when she starts to eat. The Danish is delicious, with fresh, crumbly pastry and sweet-sharp, tangy apricot.

While she eats, Blackwall studies her face. "You look tired," he says eventually. 

"I didn't get much sleep," Gwynn admits. 

"Are you sure they didn't hurt you?"

Gwynn looks up at him. His face is hard to read behind all that hair. "No," she says. "They didn't hurt me. Thanks to you."

"Who was that man waiting for you when we got back?" Blackwall asks. His voice is reluctant, as if he doesn't really want to know but thinks he should. 

"Solas?" Gwynn says. _A stranger. An elder. A guy who I flirt with once._ None of those sound very good, so she settles on saying, "He's my neighbour." 

Blackwall looks at her for a moment, then simply says, "I see." 

"That table in the front is beautiful." Gwynn points back to the driftwood table. "Did you make everything here?"

"Oh, aye. This is all my work. The table ... I enjoy making pieces like those." He sits back with a smile. "Gives me a good excuse to go out into the wild. I found that wood by a lake just north of here."

"It's lovely."

"It is. Hard to sell something like that though. You want to make the price worth the extra trouble of creating something unique. Gotta wait for some rich collector or a hipster with too much disposable income."

Gwynn tilts her head and smiles, not really understanding. He licks the sugar from his fingers. "Want a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please."

They stay there and talk into the afternoon. The tea is strong and unfamiliar, but she likes it all the same and makes a mental note to pick some up from the shops. Blackwall asks about her clan, and to her great surprise Gwynn finds herself telling him. She talks about the time Marley caught her sneaking into a nearby town, and when they bought a new caravan, and the pain of getting her tattoos. Blackwall sympathises, rolling up his sleeve to show her a tattoo of a griffin on his wrist.

“Does it mean anything?” she asks.

“Not really,” he says, but she can tell from his sideways glance that he’s not telling the whole truth. “What about yours?”

“They’re mostly for an old elven god,” she says. Blackwall nods, but she doubts he really understands, and she doesn’t elaborate.

He asks how she learned to fight. She tells him of Luca teaching her how to punch, how to hold a knife, how to hit a weak spot. Luca taught her other things too; how to fish and set traps for animals when trading for food was impossible. 

"Who is Luca?" Blackwall asks. 

Gwynn hesitates. Luca is harder to explain than Marley or the others. "Luca was sort of like an older sister. An older girl, in the clan."

"'Was'?" Blackwall asks. 

Gwynn swallows. "Was," she confirms. "They're...they're all in the past now." Suddenly she can't speak. Her throat has constricted painfully. She takes a sip of her cooled tea. 

They say nothing for a moment. Slowly, Blackwall starts to tell her stories of his own. He tells her of fishing alone by the lakes when he goes to look for wood, and by the end of his story, Gwynn is in control again. 

When she goes to leave, Blackwall says, "You're welcome to visit any time, Gwynn." He says this cautiously. She gets the feeling that it is more a concession to her than anything; Blackwall seems the type to enjoy his solitude. But she appreciates the gesture all the same. 

 

When she gets back, Varric has left a note taped to her door. _I'm getting notes left and right today,_ she thinks, ripping it off. It tells her she should visit him in apartment 4E. Curious, she knocks on his door. 

He answers quickly. "Thank god. You're after a job, right?" He says without preamble. He leads her into his apartment. It's large, with separate rooms for the living room and bedroom. It even has a study, littered with paper. Puzzling over its size, she realises it must have been two apartments at one point.

"Yes, I am looking -- is that a crossbow?!" Startled, she nearly drops her bag. The crossbow is propped upright in the corner, as inconspicuous as it is incongruous. 

"Oh, don't mind Bianca--"

"You called your _crossbow_ 'Bianca'?" she says with no small amount of amusement. 

"Hey," he clicks his fingers. "Focus, Inky. This is an emergency. I was going to get Josephine to help me, but she's busy. You can type?"

"Of course."

"Help me out," he pleads. "Just for a few hours. I need to get this draft in to my editor, but I'm a terrible typist. If I give you half, we might be able to make it in time--"

"Of course I'll help," she says, pleased by his obvious relief. "You don't need to pay me."

Varric scoffs. "The city is gonna trample all over you, kid. Take a seat at the desk. And I'm paying you."

He dumps a pile of papers in front of her once she's seated, and hands her a laptop. "That's pages one-sixty to three-twenty. Once you're finished, let me know." He brings another laptop out of the bedroom and seats himself across from her. 

Gwynn feels a little tremble of excitement, flicking through the pages. "Another fantasy! You hand-write your drafts?"

"My handwriting is actually faster," Varric says wryly. "Fuck, I forgot you were a fan. Just ignore all the plot holes and grammar errors for now."

"You got it," Gwynn says cheerfully, starting to type. It takes her a while to get used to the low, thin keyboard, so unlike the chunky one she used to use. She's not much faster than Varric, but she makes up for her speed with an accurate memory and a talent at interpreting Varric's scrawled writing. 

The hours tick away. Despite Varric's deprecation of his work Gwynn finds his story is engaging and easy to read. She barely notices when Varric gets up to make them food, but she's ravenous when he puts a bowl of pasta in front of her. She checks her work while she eats, until Varric says, "Take a break, Inky."

"Oh." She pushes back from the desk and stretches; her wrist twangs and she grimaces. "How did you go?"

"Almost there. You?"

"Done."

"What?!" Varric stands and moves to her side of the desk, scrolling through her work to check it himself. "Andraste's tits. Well done. Save it, before the computer crashes and we're done for."

"Okay." 

"That's very well done, Gwynn, thank you." Varric takes his seat again, spooning pasta into his mouth. 

Gwynn smiles. "I thought you'd forgotten my name."

"What? Oh, the nicknaming?" He shrugs. "I don't forget people's names so easily."

It takes a moment for Gwynn to realise it, but there is music pumping below them. She frowns in confusion. "What is that?"

"Level 2," Varric says with a shake of his head. "On Saturday night they go a little mad. It drives Cassandra crazy, since she often works Sundays. Fun if you want to party though." 

"What do they do?" Gwynn asks curiously. 

"Drink, play cards, take bets, get trashed." He puts half of his remaining pile of papers in front of her. There aren't many left. "Help me finish this and I'll take you down to meet them."

Varric pays her a good amount for the four hours she typed for him--well over the minimum wage. With the cash in her hands, the tight ball of anxiety in her chest unravels a little. She hadn't even realised it was there. The money won't get her far, but it will help. 

"I hope you have your party shoes on, Inky," Varric says to her. "Level 2 won't let you in if you don't look like you're there to outdrink a qunari."

"What, do they have bouncers waiting by the stairs and the lift?" Gwynn asks, amused. 

"I wouldn't be surprised," Varric says with a chuckle. Cassandra walks past them in the hallway and Varric says, "Going to join us on level 2 tonight, officer?"

Cassandra makes a small sound of disgust in the back of her throat. "No. And stop corrupting her." She points at Gwynn, who raises an eyebrow. 

Varric spreads his hands wide in protest. "I'm not!" 

Cassandra grunts in disbelief. They watch her stalk away, Gwynn smiling bemusedly. "I'm starting to get nervous about this 'level 2'."

"Then your survival instincts aren't completely off." He grins wide when she looks at him, startled. "Only kidding. But it will be a night to remember ... If you remember any of it tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much action in this chapter; next chapter Gwynn takes on level 2 ;) 
> 
> Happy valentines day/singles appreciation day! Hope you're spending it with someone special or treating yourself in some way! I might try and release another chapter later tonight. No promises.


	6. Insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwynn gets to know the motley crew of level 2.

Chapter 6: Insanity

 

_I don't think we should get mixed up in that stuff. Sera's different, the Red Jennies are already established--_

_Are you really gonna let them fuck with us? Let them hunt our people while we sit by and do nothing? Even if all we can do is help one more elf, it will be worth it! It will be enough!_

 

***

 

Gwynn's first impression of level 2 is sound and chaos. She and Varric step out of the elevator to find that every door on the floor is open. Electronic music pumps from a sound system somewhere in the middle. People mill in the hallway and share drinks, ducking in and out of each other's rooms. But before she and Varric can take more than two steps, they are intercepted by an elven woman with a pale skin and silvery hair. 

"What's the password?" she says with a grin, blocking their path. Gwynn realises with a swoop to her stomach as that the girl is Dalish -- tattoos line her face, an old fashioned style, but they’re for the same god as Gwynn’s own tattoos. 

“Ah ... we don’t know,” Varric says. “Is Bull around?”

Like a shadow, another elf appears behind the first. Where the first elf seems friendly, the second elf has a face like a blunt hatchet, and seems about as forgiving. “Password,” she says.

“Andaran atish’an?” Gwynn ventures to the Dalish girl. 

The girl focusses on her, her smile slipping for half a second before it stretches even wider than before. “Well, hi there!”

“That’s not the password, then?” 

“Nope. If you don’t know the password, then I’m afraid that’s twenty each to get in--”

“Dalish!” a sharp voice calls out. “Stop hustling. It’s your turn to get drinks, so go.” Gwynn looks past the elves to see a human man walking towards them. The sides of his head are shaved and he carries a bottle of beer in one hand. Dalish -- Gwynn can only assume that’s a nickname -- pokes her tongue out at him before snagging the arm of the other elf and hopping into the lift.

Varric greets the human, looking relieved. “Hey, Krem.”

“‘Sup, Tethras.” The man jerks his chin at Gwynn. “Who’s this?”

“This is Gwynn, the new girl. Inky, this is Krem.”

“Nice to meet you, Krem.”

“Likewise.” Krem holds out a hand to her, the one not carrying the bottle, and Gwynn shakes it. His hands are rough, but smaller than she thought they’d be. 

A soft _oh_ escapes her. 

She looks up to find Krem watching her with barely hidden wariness. Gwynn recognises that look instantly. It’s the same one that her Dalish friends wore when interacting with humans, the same one she wore when telling Luca about her relationship with Sera. She doesn’t really know how to make a look like that disappear, but she gives Krem a smile.

He relaxes and lets go of her hand. “Come meet the crew, Gwynn.” He walks back down the hallway, and Gwynn has a chance to take it all in.

Someone has pulled a long table into the hallway, and trying to get past it creates a regular bottleneck. The table is stacked with bottles, a lot of them already empty. Down the far end of the hall, the door that leads to the fire escape is open. She can just see a couple of people out there, smoking. She gets a good look into the rooms as they pass and they’re as varied as can be; some neat, some messy, some small, some big.

"I thought you said there were no elves here?" Gwynn says to Varric. 

"Hadn't met those two before." 

"Dalish and Skinner," Krem supplies. "Hope that doesn't get confusing with you around, Gwynn."

‘The crew’ turn out to be an assortment of humans and dwarves. He introduces them as Stitches, a human paramedic, Rocky, a dwarven construction worker, and Grim. Somehow she misses what exactly it is that Grim does for a living. Rocky offers her a beer, Krem pulls a desk chair out of a room and she joins their circle, such as it is. 

She immediately takes to Stitches’ dry humour. She listens to Rocky and Varric commiserate on their mutual dislike of dwarven elitism while she and Stitches compare scars. He isn’t fooled by them for a second -- at one point, he says, “That’s a nasty knife wound,” and Varric looks over at her, startled. Shortly after, Dalish and Skinner return with a carton of beer, and Dalish beams unapologetically at them. 

“Where’s Tiny?” Varric asks.

Krem nods towards the fire escape. “Chatting up Harding, from level 3.” He looks dissatisfied for some reason. Twisting in his chair, he calls out, “Hey, Chief!”

“What?” bellows a voice from the end of the hallway, and Gwynn blanches as the biggest, muscliest, scariest qunari she has ever seen pokes his enormous horned head through the door. His cigarette is tiny in his huge hand.

“Get over here. Meet the new girl.” 

“Oh, sure.” Gwynn watches him put out his cigarette on the railing and duck inside. She quails a little. His horns almost scrape the ceiling. A dwarven woman with gingery hair follows him and gives Gwynn and the others a friendly smile. 

“How you doin’, new girl. Level 4, right?” the qunari says. He’s showing an awful lot of muscle; he's shirtless, wearing loose striped pants that would look comical on a less terrifying man. He's covered in scars, and geometric tattoos wend their way up his arms. 

“Th-that’s right," she says. 

"Chief, this is Gwynn. Gwynn, this is Bull."

"That's The Iron Bull to you, créme-de-la-créme," Bull says. Krem rolls his eyes and gives Gwynn a long suffering look.

“‘The Iron Bull’?” Gwynn lets out a nervous laugh. “You guys sure do like your nicknames...”

“Oh it’s not a nickname,” Bull says. “I used to be a wrestler.” With barely a change in beat he says, “This is Lacey Harding. She’s agreed to suffer our rowdy presence for the night.”

“Hiya, Gwynn,” the dwarf girl says, sitting next to Krem. “I’m glad you’re here; means there should be someone on level 2 who isn’t totally insane.”

“What about me?” Varric and Krem say at almost the same time. The others break into laughter.

“Speaking of Insanity...” Bull begins. 

Everyone groans. “Not tonight, Chief, I’m still sore from last week’s round!” Krem complains.

“Oh come on, Krem! We have new people! That’s the best time to play Insanity!” The Iron Bull plonks down on the floor beside Skinner with childish enthusiasm. Despite her trepidation, Gwynn can’t help smiling.

“Dare I ask what ‘Insanity’ is?” she says.

"It's the drinking game to end all drinking games."

Varric interjects. "Can't we play something sophisticated, like--"

"If you say 'Wicked Grace' I'm going to break your writing hand."

"Sheesh. Alright, bossy-pants."

They then proceed to explain the rules of Insanity. 

They are the most outrageous set of rules she has ever heard. The game is something like an unholy amalgamation of spin-the-bottle, truth-or-dare, strip-poker and your standard drinking game. The basic idea is if you skip a dare, kiss or truth, you take off an item of clothing. If the bottle lands on you a second time, you have to drink and complete a challenge. There is even a version with dice, Krem adds with a grin. 

"What?!"

"Yeah, to dictate exactly who kisses and who drinks--"

"This is the most dangerous sounding game in the world," Gwynn says, laughing. "No sane person would play it."

"Thus, Insanity," Varric says. "Don't worry Inky, I'll protect you." 

 

"Traitor!" Gwynn yelps. She's down to three items of clothing; her bra, her jeans and her underwear. "You promised to protect me!"

Varric is laughing. "All's fair in love and Insanity!"

Things had started off innocently enough. They had let her spin the bottle first, and it landed on Bull. He had accepted her dare to call Leliana and Josephine and invite them to the game. To Gwynn's delight, they had accepted, arriving ten minutes later with a head-start on a bottle of tequila. 

Dares, truths, kisses and drinks passed. 

They were an affectionate group, it seemed, as half their dares were wasted on kisses anyway. Dalish kissed Skinner. Skinner got Rocky's shirt off. Leliana revealed she'd had a fling with a famous popular artist. Josephine got Gwynn's shirt off when she refused to answer how she'd met Blackwall; the others 'oohed' and sniggered and Gwynn folded her arms across her chest, scowling. Harding revealed her interest in women and men. At Bull's curious line of questioning, it was revealed that Stitches was the only one there _not_ interested in women. The women cheered and clinked their bottles together. 

Stitches kissed Bull, Bull kissed Krem. Krem dared Varric to add a character named after him to his next story. Varric refused, argued that it wasn't a dare if you couldn't do it right away, and was eventually convinced to take his shirt off too. 

Now Varric has dared Gwynn to go to level 1. As she is. Without a top on. The danger is, of course, that level 1 is a common room, and mostly visible from the street, especially at night. The alternative is taking her jeans off ... Or her bra, but she is even less inclined to do that.

"If you can't take the dares, stop picking 'dare'!" Varric laughs.

"Fine, fine! Truth then, _please_!"

Varric relents with a smile. "Alright, I'll let you off, since your face is redder than a sunset." His eyes rest on the large knife scar on her hand. She tenses. "Uh, truth ... Are you dating that chick you did the first night you moved in?" 

A chorus of whistles and hoots follows this question. If it's possible for her face to get any redder, she's sure it's happening. "Varric!"

"Ah, whoops." His grin is positively evil. "I mean, are you dating that chick you had crazy, noisy, steamy sex with--"

"Varric!!" Her arms, which were covering her chest, reach out to throttle him. Fuck modesty. He laughs and batts her hands away playfully until she sits back, blushing to the high heavens. 

"No," she says. "Sera and I aren't dating. We're just ..."

"Friends with benefits?"

Gwynn grimaces. "Yes."

"Oh, you need to drink twice because you denied the first dare."

"Mother _fucker,_ " she snarls, and the group erupts into laughter. 

By the end of the game, Gwynn is sitting in Krem's lap, with paint on her face, dressed in only her bra and panties, and laughing harder than she has ever laughed in her life as Grim removes his boxers and sits back down, completely naked. Wild applause ensues. They're all in various states of undress, though Josephine and Krem seem to have survived better than most. 

"You play too well, Josie my dear," says Leliana, kissing Josephine's cheek. Josephine smirks, a pleased flush on her pretty face. 

"The night is still young! Who wants another drink?" yells Bull.

Shouts of 'yes' are all around, but Gwynn shakes her head with a smile, looking back at him. "Thank you, but I will be going to bed."

She lets out a little shriek when he lifts her bodily from Krem's lap, but then he sets her on her feet with all the care in the world, and kisses the back of her hand. 

"Well played, Gwynn," he says, and she is surprised to find that he is no longer a scary qunari to her, just a big guy with a big interest in sex and a lot of wildly inappropriate questions. She drops a curtsy, giggling. 

Dressed again, her shoes dangling from one hand and an empty bottle in the other, she waves goodbye to everyone and steps into the lift. 

A pair of blue-grey eyes meet hers from behind wire-rimmed glasses. 

Gwynn almost drops her shoes. 

Solas, pressing his lips together to hide a smile, pulls her into the lift so that the doors can close behind her. For a second they just stand there, staring at one another. 

Then, feeling silly with excitement, Gwynn cocks her hip and says breathily, "We _have_ to stop meeting like this."

Solas' eyes crinkle at the edges as he tries not to laugh. "Oh?" he says. "But I rather enjoy it."

"Oh, me too," Gwynn says enthusiastically, far too honest. "Wouldn't it be nice if the elevator broke down?"

Solas does laugh this time, a delighted chuckle that makes her grin in triumph. "No, I'm afraid I am rather keen to get to bed." 

Ignoring her impish grin at the double entendre, he rubs at her cheek with his thumb. "What is this? Paint?" His hand is warm, almost hot. 

"Oh, yeah, we were, um..."

"That horrible drinking game?" he asks with amusement. 

"Mm-hmm," Gwynn says, her eyes fluttering closed. 

He abruptly takes his hand away. 

She opens her eyes to see him facing the door. The line of his brow is troubled. 

"Solas...?" 

The elevator pings and they step out onto their floor. His expression clears a little as he looks back at her, but he's closed now, cut off from her. "Yes?" 

Unsure of what to say in the face of this change, she says, "How was work?"

He smiles. "Very ... fruitful."

"What is it exactly that you do?"

"I'm an archaeologist."

"Like Indiana Jones?"

"Yes, but with less wilful destruction of material culture and disregard of native entitlement." His voice is wry. 

Gwynn smirks. "You don't like Indiana Jones?"

He shakes his head, but more at her question than as an answer. "He's not a very good archaeologist."

They're standing in front of their doors, and Gwynn is half hoping he'll invite her in, but the events of the night before flood her mind and her smile slips. 

He notices immediately. "Lethallan?"

She licks her lips. "I'm sorry about last night. I acted ... shamefully."

He shakes his head. "You were scared. I understood." 

"I probably caused you all kinds of trouble, but I just wanted to thank you for ... for being there."

His smile looks a little sad. Eventually he says, "I was relieved to see you looking so happy when you entered the lift."

"Thank you for the note, too."

"You are welcome." He puts his hand on the door handle, saying, "Shall we meet tomorrow? I know of a place."

"Okay." Gwynn wants to sink her nails into his jumper to stop him from leaving. Instead her traitorous mouth says, "Goodnight."

"Sweet dreams, Gwynn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating on my phone, please forgive me for any errors I'm making!
> 
> I ended up rewriting this chapter to try and make it more cohesive, which is why it took longer than I thought it would. I had so many ideas for the drinking game!! But alas they would have made the chapter too long if I were to include them all. 
> 
> Happy International Fan Works day! (For yesterday now)


	7. Lamb, Raven, Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwynn and Solas get to know one another.

_What will we do now? Without Luca ..._

_We stop. We quit._

_We can't quit now! We're more vulnerable than we ever have been! We need you!_

_I have nothing for you--_

_You can't walk away from this, Gwynn!_

 

***

 

Gwynn sleeps like the dead for three hours before the nightmares wake her again. She waits, too tired to move, until grey morning light filters through the two bottles lined up on her windowsill. She then drags herself from bed. 

She looks terrible. The lack of sleep is definitely starting to take its toll, judging from the bruised skin beneath her eyes. The small amount of vanity she has for her appearance rankles. Frustrated, she takes a shower, scrubbing her face as if she can rub the shadows away. 

When she gets out, she can hear Solas moving around in his apartment. Relieved to have something to do, she sends him a text. 

_( hey, this is gwynn. good morning! what's the plan for today? }_

She even hears the message tone go off in his apartment, and she shakes her head. No wonder he could hear everything she did with Sera. Face burning, she wonders suddenly if there's anyone in apartment 4C, on the other side. She hasn't heard anything.

Her phone buzzes and she picks it up. 

_{ Good morning. We can leave whenever you're ready. Be sure to dress warmly. )_

_( ok! great. by the way, is this a date? ;) }_

She hears a bang -- it sounds like Solas has collided with the table. She giggles. His reply is swift. 

_{ Always with the flirtation. Let me know when you are ready. )_

_That's not a no,_ she thinks with a nervous thrill in her stomach. _But not a yes, either._ Excited, confused, she scrambles to get breakfast. 

While she's eating, she gets texts from Josephine and Varric. Josephine asks for her email address, saying she's got a job offer for her and will send her the details. Gwynn replies at once, grateful. Varric's text thanks her for the help with his work and congratulates her on her level 2 initiation. She texts him back the words, "Next week, you're going down, Tethras." His reply of "You're on" makes her smirk. 

She has no special clothes to wear, so she settles on her black jeans and green cardigan, quelling a surge of disappointment. As a compromise, she tries to style her unruly hair, twisting a strand to pin back towards her ear. She carefully puts on some mascara. There's nothing to be done about the dark circles under her eyes however. 

She picks up her bag and jacket, and exits the apartment to knock on Solas' door. 

He answers a moment later, eyes sweeping her body. "Do you have a scarf?" he asks. 

"No...?"

"A moment." He ducks back inside his apartment and emerges with a soft grey scarf, which he places around her neck. 

She lets him tie it for her, enjoying the look of studious concentration on his face as he does so. "Is the place we're going that cold?" 

"It may be cold today," he replies ambiguously. "Shall we...?"

"After you."

He leads her downstairs and behind the apartment block to a carpark. Gwynn knows nothing about cars, so the car he leads her to is unremarkable, but seems well kept. She slides into the passenger seat and they drive smoothly out onto Frostback. She wonders briefly if she should be worried about getting into a stranger's car. 

_I trust him,_ she realises suddenly. _And for no good reason, either._

The other voice in her head, the smiling one that always manages to sound like Luca, whispers, _Careful, Gwynn._

He glances at her as they drive. "How did you sleep?"

Startled from her reverie, she answers a second too late. "Fine."

He snorts softly. "You are unaccustomed to lying, I think."

"No, no I..." She thinks about it for a moment. "I lie all the time. But perhaps I'm not good at it."

"You seem a very honest person to me." He pauses. "At least in your emotions."

"I suppose that's true," she says, flushing. She can't help but look at him curiously though. "So _is_ this a date?"

He gives a short laugh. "Well ... I was thinking it was more a chance to get to know one another."

"I'm happy with that," Gwynn says, settling into her seat. 

"Would you be unhappy if it were a date?" His tone is questioning, curious. Like he doesn't know what to make of her yet. 

She knows the feeling. 

"That depends on how well this 'getting to know each other' thing goes," she replies cheekily. 

Solas shakes his head, smiling. 

He pulls the car into a parking spot next to what seems to be a park; Gwynn can see towering deciduous trees in all their autumn glory, and a number of pines leading across the grass. As they get out, Solas hands her a basket and she peeks inside. 

"A picnic!"

"Just in case we get hungry." 

He leads the way across the grass, carrying a picnic rug and an umbrella. The park is huge, with sloping hills of grass leading down to a bramble-lined creek. They walk until Gwynn can no longer hear the sound of traffic, and she gives a contented sigh. 

There are a few other people there, but the grey weather has mostly kept the park empty. Solas leads her to a spot where the pines form a rustling, sharp-scented canopy. The creek bubbles. The leaves are crisp beneath her feet. Solas spreads the picnic rug and she sits on it, threading her hand into the grass. 

"This is _lovely_ ," she says, taking deep breaths of cold autumn air. Solas sits next to her, looking down at her with a smile. 

"I thought you might enjoy somewhere like this. It must be very strange to live in the city after..."

"Yes, it is." She looks at him. "You seem to know a lot about the Dalish."

Something in his expression shutters, but his voice is calm as he says, "I have worked with them quite closely in the past. Most of the archaeological research I undertake is related to Arlathan or pre-Arlathan elven sites."

Gwynn sits up, excitement swelling in her like a balloon. "It is? It must be fascinating! So much of it is lost! Tell me ... tell me of what you've found! I mean..." She moderates. "I'm no scholar, but..."

He smiles. "I have always believed interest to be more valuable than experience. But trying to summarise my research would take a very long time." He leans back on his elbows. "I can tell you I've found evidence for pre-Arlathan architecture that many would call foolish fancy. It is hard to find but it is there; sweeping cathedrals and spires, glass-making practices that pre-date even the Harappan culture, evidence of organised craft work that pre-dates the human shift to sedentary agriculture in the Fertile Crescent." He glances at her to find her wide-eyed but uncomprehending, and visibly checks himself. "I mean to say that elven civilisations were building and creating complex societies far longer than humans believe."

"Our stories say that," Gwynn says. "That we had a great empire before the humans came." Her brow furrows. "When you say 'pre-Arlathan', what do you mean?"

"Ancient elven archaeology is often divided up into three ages; pre-Arlathan, Arlathan and post-Arlathan. The Arlathan period is named after the city that was supposed to exist here, of course. We have more evidence for Arlathan society than pre-Arlathan, but even that evidence is very little." He grimaces. "As you might imagine, there are few human universities willing to finance research into elven archaeology unless they believe it will benefit them in some way."

"There are no elven universities, are there?"

"None at all." He lies back on the rug and watches the grey, swirling sky. "Human universities are accepting elves now, of course, but it has been a shamefully recent change."

Gwynn lies back too. "One of my friends growing up wanted to attend university. It was an impossible dream, of course. We had no money. A lot of Dalish don't even have papers."

Solas nods. "The humans I work with have enough integrity to ensure that we work with Dalish groups where we can." He cuts himself off suddenly, turning to look at her. "You have not told me," he says with care, "What you are truly doing so far from your clan."

She gives him a weak smile. "I didn't think it would make for very good conversation."

"You do not have to tell me," he says softly. "I simply wish to know why you came here."

Looking back at the sky, she takes a moment to answer. "Something ... something very bad happened. I was forced to leave, even though I didn't want to. So here I am." 

"And the nightmares? They're related?"

"Yes."

He says nothing for a moment, considering her words. Then he says, "Are you hungry?"

Gwynn blinks. "I am, actually."

Solas sits up and draws the basket towards him. "Then my preparations were not in vain." Gwynn sits up with a smile, watching him unpack an array of food; flatbread and dip, olives, chickpea salad, soft cheese and crackers, nectarines and ...

"Strawberries," Gwynn says with a laugh.

"You like them?"

"Yes, I do. Though I've been having quite a lot of them lately."

Solas smiles, uncapping a bottle of ginger beer and pouring it into plastic cups. They pick at the food while Solas, after some prodding from Gwynn, tells her more about his research; the difficulties of finding wood in the archaeological record, the tampering of ancient sites by everything from looters to bad archaeologists. She asks him about Indiana Jones again, grinning as he breaks into a rant about the fictional character's terrible archaeological practices; "He's a treasure hunter, not an archaeologist!"

"You're not a city elf, nor are you Dalish," she says eventually. "So what...?"

"I can't just be an elf?" he asks with mild reproof. 

"I just wondered what sort of life you've led."

"An uneventful one," he says. 

She raises an eyebrow in disbelief. "What about your parents? Your family." He shakes his head. She feels immediately terrible. "I'm sorry."

He sighs. "Don't be. That was a long time ago."

Which leads her to her next question. "How old are you?" she asks curiously. 

He smirks. "Too old for you."

She frowns. "How old do you think I am?"

His eyes rest on her face, move over her cheeks and down her neck before meeting her gaze. She feels hot, scrutinised, stripped-bare. 

But his answer is hesitant. "Nineteen...?"

She straightens, shocked. "Try adding six years!"

Solas barks a laugh. "My apologies. You seem younger...please take it as a compliment."

She scowls. "Nineteen? Seriously? No wonder Leliana was calling me a lamb."

"I have offended you."

"Nineteen is barely legal!"

"Are we doing anything that requires legality?" he says archly. 

"We could be." 

She is both pleased and miffed by his tolerant disregard of her bad flirting. He gives her an amused look, handing her a tiny friand pulled from the basket. "Please accept this as a peace offering."

"You're lucky I love strawberries so much."

She's never had anything so soft and delicious as the friand. Fine cakes were something of a rarity to her. Licking her fingers with satisfied languor after the meal, she says, "That was wonderful, thank you. This whole place is wonderful."

"It is my pleasure." Solas packs up the picnic as he speaks. "I'm pleased that you can find some peace here."

"Peace..." she says slowly. "Yes, that's what this is." She lies on her back. It's starting to rain, very finely, but she's too sated to care. 

Solas opens the umbrella and holds it above them. They stay there quietly for a while, him sitting and her lying down next to him, listening to the faint patter of the rain on the umbrella and the bubbling of the creek. 

"I often come here and sleep when I feel like the city is becoming too much for me," Solas says. 

"You sleep out in the open?" To her surprise, she finds her own eyes have begun to droop. 

"I thought you might understand the appeal."

"I suppose I do."

He looks down at her, expression gentle. "...Sleep if you wish, lethallan," he says softly. "I feel like you could use the rest."

"What about you?" She yawns. "Won't you be bored?"

"I believe I've spoken more words today than I have in a week," he says wryly. "I do not find silence so unappealing."

She chuckles sleepily, wanting to say something. But she is at peace, and exhausted, and sleep inexorably pulls her into its gentle arms. 

 

She sleeps dreamlessly. When she wakes, she finds that it has stopped raining. Her legs are damp and beginning to chill, but she feels more rested than she has for days, so she considers it a fair trade. 

"I hope you don't get sick." She looks up at Solas to see he has been reading while she napped. He puts the book away, smiling down at her. "Sleep well?"

She nods, sleep still clinging to her mouth and eyes. He offers her a water bottle as she sits up and she drinks. "How long was I out?"

"About three hours."

"Three hours?! I -- I'm sorry--!"

"Peace, lethallan. I have nowhere I'd rather be." 

She glances at him, but his expression is unreadable. "Still," she says.

"We should head back, or you really will catch a cold." He offers his hand. She takes it and he helps her up. 

"Dalish don't get colds," she says breathlessly. Two of his fingers are resting on her wrist in a startlingly distracting way. 

"No?"

"Well, they always say that in my clan."

He lets go of her hand and they walk back to the car. 

On the way back to Haven, they ask each other silly questions, minor, harmless things. 

"What's your favourite; sun, moon, or stars?" she says. 

"The moon. And you?" 

"The stars." 

"You won't see them much in the city."

"Why not?"

"Light pollution," he says. Cutting off her disappointed sigh, he says, "Favourite animal?"

"Mm...Ravens, maybe? I like wolves too."

He glances at her. "You're ... not superstitious then?"

"You mean about Fen'harel? Or Fear and Deceit?" Smiling, she shakes her head. "I love any animal that intelligent. What about you? Do you like wolves?"

"Not particularly."

"What's your favourite animal then?"

He gives Gwynn a sidelong look. "...Lambs."

Gwynn laughs, but something in Solas' answering grin is very, very wolf-like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating on my phone again because I've barely had a chance to get to a computer recently! As always, thank you so much for your comments, kudos and bookmarks. Let me know whag you thought of this chapter; I think it can be improved but I'm not sure how.


	8. Money

_You know how I said I didn't want to be involved? Forget that. I'm putting those bastards in their early graves if it's the last thing I..._

 

***

 

"I am afraid I have work to do," Solas says as they arrive back at Haven. They are standing a careful distance apart in the lift. Gwynn withholds a sigh, but mixed in with the disappointment is something that feels a little like relief. 

When they reach their apartments, she tries to return the scarf he'd given her, but he stops her hands, refastening the scarf around her neck. 

"Keep it."

They are standing very close, his hands nestled in the scarf near her chin. To her surprise, and maybe also to his, she is the one who pulls away. 

"Have a good evening. Thank you for the ..." She hesitates. 

He nods, his face as impassive as when she had first met him. "Good evening."

Returning to her apartment, she leans against the wall, heart thudding. 

_This is bad,_ a voice in her mind, all her own this time, whispers. _This is very bad._

 

Gwynn's days fall into a rhythm. She wakes up early after a few scant hours of sleep. Her body seems to adapt to her new insomniac tendencies, barely. She walks to the coffee shop, and finally works up the courage to hand in a résumé, printed from the nearby library. The owner, a russet haired man with a trim beard, gives her a careful look over as he interviews her, but she doesn't sense any malice in him. He tells her he'll give her a call. 

She spends the rest of the mornings either in the library using the computers or wandering around familiarising herself with the neighbourhood. She keeps a careful eye out, trying to figure out where she had been attacked by the gang. She also takes to wearing a beanie to cover her ears. Coupled with her unusual height, it allows her to pass for a human if people don't look too closely. Or at least she hopes so. 

She visits Blackwall in the afternoons. He at first tolerates these visits, then seems to expect them, even appreciate them. His manner is still a strange mix of gruff and courteous. He shows her the animal figurines he whittles in his spare time and offers her tea when the shop isn't busy. 

"And how is your ... neighbour?" he asks one afternoon. There's a smile hiding somewhere behind that beard. 

Gwynn can feel her ears go red. "He's fine. Still just my neighbour though."

"'Just', eh?"

"Actually," Gwynn says slowly, "I think everyone thinks I have something going on with you, because I wouldn't tell them how we met..." 

Blackwall snorts, which makes Gwynn laugh. 

In the evenings she returns to Haven and visits Varric or Josephine, both of whom she is particularly taken with and who seem to enjoy her company. They chatter, and Gwynn falls into the familiar role of listener. And they are kind. At times, a nasty little part of her whispers that she is taking advantage of their kindness, and that they'll soon tire of her. But she watches carefully for any sign that she is unwelcome and finds none. 

It turns out that Josephine lives with Leliana in a two bedroom apartment on the fifth floor. Gwynn looks around Josephine's room with pleasure; it contains a big quilted bed, a warm rug on the floor, and books, books galore, scattered over a writing desk and crammed into the corners. There are spice-scented candles on the windowsill, and it all seems to suit Josephine in a way that makes Gwynn smile. 

Sometimes Leliana is there too, sitting in their neat little kitchen, strumming her instruments and singing softly. Gwynn likes to listen, though Leliana always sings too quietly for her to make out the words, and the melodies are sad. But more often than not, Leliana is out somewhere or ensconced in her room. Gwynn wonders what her room looks like, if it matches Leliana the way Josephine's matches hers. 

"She values her privacy," Josephine says one day over cups of hot chocolate. Leliana had arrived home, murmured 'good evening', and then returned to her room without so much as a backwards glance. Josephine's voice drops. "To be honest, sometimes I worry about her. She seems so different these days than how she was as a girl..."

"Different?"

"Withdrawn, sort of ... shut-off." Josephine's expression is unhappy. "Though of course she hides it."

Gwynn doesn't say anything, rubbing the edge of the china tea cup. She knows a thing or two about hiding.

As for Solas, Gwynn doesn't know what she expects to change between them after their strange not-date, and nothing really does. The only difference is the occasional text message, the occasional hallway meeting. For some reason, he doesn't invite her into his apartment, and she doesn't invite him into hers either. They persist with this like it's an unwritten rule, one that she doesn't really know why they enforce. But it becomes a regular habit to poke her head out her door in the morning and bid him good day before he goes to work, and she can tell from the way his shoulders relax at the sight of her that he doesn't mind, at least.

 

One afternoon, Josephine takes her on a tram ride into the city to meet a friend. When Gwynn asks her whether she has time off work, Josephine grimaces. 

"It's really only part time," she explains. "In addition to the job at the embassy, I work some nights at the cinema, front-of-house. And do the occasional typing for Varric."

"Does your rent cost that much...?"

"Oh, no." She takes a moment to answer, looking out the window of the tram. "The truth is, my family is under a bit of...pressure, at the moment. We were old money, we had an estate, but my parents inherited a lot of debt from my grandparents. My younger sister is an artist, and my other siblings are younger still, so I want to send as much money back to my parents as possible...if I do not, I am afraid we may lose the house." She gives a short sigh. "Lately I feel I have not been doing enough so I'm thinking of looking for another job."

"So you do all this work for your family?" Gwynn blinks. She's already finding the realities of rent and living expenses hard enough without the added stress of providing for other people. 

"I would probably do it anyway," Josephine says, smiling. "I enjoy working.” She looks skyward, smiling turning wry. “And I enjoy being able to buy whatever I like as a result."

"So that's why you live at Haven."

"Yes.”

As they get further and further into the middle of the city, it starts to get busier. More people get on and off the tram, and when Gwynn and Josephine finally step off, Gwynn finds she is surrounded by people. Someone knocks her with an elbow, barely noticing her as they hurry on. Josephine links Gwynn’s arm with her own, giving her an amused smile. “It’s not much further.”

"Don't let go of me," Gwynn says, real fear in her voice. "I'll get lost."

Josephine giggles. "Don't worry."

They walk past a dwarven-run shopping centre and down an alley. Street art and graffiti decorates the brick walls, and workers on their smoking breaks glance up as they pass. Weaving in and out of side streets, they eventually arrive at large marble building. Golden lettering over the entrance reads 'The Royeaux'.

"Here we are."

Tall glass doors give way to white walls and staircases with gilt banisters. It's a gallery, Gwynn quickly realises; the main room leads into a series of themed antechambers, with paintings, sculptures and other artworks placed strategically around the rooms. Josephine leads her to the sweeping staircase near the entrance, and they ascend to the next level. 

"I must warn you," Josephine says as they walk. "Madame Vivienne can be quite ... imposing on first impression, to say the least. But she is a very good woman to have on your side."

"Imposing how?" Gwynn asks, but at that moment Josephine opens a door to an office, and Gwynn's eyes fall on one of the most stylishly beautiful people she has ever seen. 

The woman is wearing a tailored grey suit and a crisp white shirt with a plunging neckline. She has perfectly smooth brown skin, delicately coloured lips and sharp, calculating eyes. She turns to look at them, and her movements are as sinuous as a leopard's. 

"Madame Vivienne!" Josephine exclaims, moving forward to kiss the now-smiling woman on each cheek. "It has been too long."

"I think we can dispense with the 'Madame' by now don't you, Josephine?" Vivienne says, smiling warmly at Josephine. Her smile is still in place when she fixes her eyes on Gwynn, but it is coolly assessing. "And who is your friend?"

"This is Gwynn Lavellan, the Dalish girl I told you about." 

Josephine beckons Gwynn forward and Gwynn tries not to trip over her own tongue as she says, "A pleasure to meet you, Madame Vivienne." 

"Likewise, my dear." Her eyes sweep Gwynn's body before returning to her face. "Josephine says you are looking for a job."

Thinking of her looming first payment of rent, Gwynn nods. "Yes."

Vivienne raises a finely sculpted eyebrow. "No questions asked. Well, well. Perhaps we should take a tour through the gallery while you tell me about yourself, my dear."

Despite being asked to talk about herself, Gwynn finds she doesn't have much to say to Vivienne. After a few of Gwynn's abortive answers, Vivienne gives up on the questions, shooting a glance at Josephine. Instead, as Vivienne leads them through the art gallery, she explains the work she does as curator. 

Gwynn likes the art, she really does, but she can't help feeling like she is being tested somehow under Vivienne's watchful gaze. She can barely focus on the art at all, until suddenly they step into a room quite different to the others. 

"Oh!" Gwynn stops, eyes on a simple display set up in the middle of the room; a beautiful dress, sweeping its way to the floor in swirls of midnight blue and white. Brilliant white jewels line the folds of the dress in delicious spirals. 

"They're like stars!" she says, drawing closer. The dress is enclosed in a glass case, which is for the better, as if it wasn't Gwynn probably would have reached out to touch it. 

"You appreciate fashion, then," Vivienne states, something close to approval in her voice for the first time since they've met. 

"I ... I've never seen anything like this before." Gwynn looks back at Josephine, who is smiling at her. "Imagine wearing something like that!"

Josephine laughs, then turns to Vivienne. "Well...?" she says. 

Vivienne's lips are pursed. "She does move well, I see what you mean. But the tattoos..."

"Surely they can be covered..."

"Josephine?" Gwynn says, annoyance sparking. What did her tattoos have to do with anything?

Josephine glances back at Gwynn, and says hastily, "Never mind, querida. Come, we'd better let Madame Vivienne return to her work." 

 

On the way back home, Josephine says, "You know, I think that's the first time I've seen you lose your temper."

Gwynn frowns. "Sorry, should I have pretended to _like_ being spoken of as if I were not there?"

Voice low with wry humour, Josephine says, "I think even if you had tried to pretend, you would not have managed well." When Gwynn's expression darkens, Josephine gives her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, Gwynn. I did not mean for it to sound like that."

Gwynn shakes her head, then sighs. "Did I screw up ... whatever that was?"

"You did not 'screw' anything." Josephine puts an arm around Gwynn's shoulders, and Gwynn, surprised and pleased by the familiar contact, leans into her. "Do not worry about."

 

A few days later, Gwynn has no choice but to worry about it. 

She gets the part-time job at the coffee shop. Josephine is almost outraged to find that they have relegated her to dishwashing rather than customer service, but Gwynn is too relieved to have a job to care. And the owners of the café treat her fairly, though with the kind of casual ignorance that comes from being too busy to think about her much. 

The man, Teagan, is kinder than the woman, Isolde, but Gwynn finds she gets on with Isolde's quiet son Connor. He's a little younger than Gwynn, with sad, haunted eyes, but they have a shared interest in fantasy literature and strike up a simple friendship in their work breaks. Isolde at first treats this relationship with suspicion, then gentles, her affection for her son overcoming any doubts she might have had about Gwynn. 

However, the cash-in-hand money is not enough to make her first payment of rent. Heart sinking, she makes a phone call to one of Sera's old contacts.

That night, she slips out of Haven, her knives hidden in the loose folds of her dark clothing. This is risky, this kind of job. Not just because she might be hurt, but also because of who might hear of it. 

It's a simple enough job; a young elf, a smuggler, needs a bodyguard in case her information is faulty. Gwynn doesn't ask what she's smuggling, and the elf doesn't say. They barely talk while they work, which is a blessing, as Gwynn's mind is consumed with scanning their surroundings for any risks. 

Luckily, everything goes without a hitch. They see nobody, and the elf, sweating with what Gwynn hopes is relief, hands Gwynn a wad of cash. 

With the money from Varric's typing, her new job, and some of her savings, she makes her first payment of rent. She calls Sera, who is too busy to help her celebrate but says with approval, "Hey, maybe you can be normal after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I've had a busy few weeks. I have a few more chapters in the works though so I should be back to the regular weekly or biweekly updates. Thank you for patiently waiting, if you're still reading this! And thank you all for 100 kudos! I'm blown away!!


	9. Fever Dreams

_...do._

 

***

 

Sera calls her back later, when Gwynn is having a celebratory drink with Varric. Her voice is full of anxious anger the moment Gwynn picks up the phone.

"Did you pick up a job through the Jennies?"

Gwynn's heart sinks. "Yes...?"

"You stupid-arse Dalish trailer trash, what the bleedin’, cock-sucking tits of Andraste did you think you were doing? Someone's been asking around after you!"

"Someone?" Gwynn grips the phone so hard Varric looks over at her curiously. "Who?"

"I dunno, someone who wants someone who looks like you. Probably not a nice someone!" Sera's voice drops to a hiss. "For fuck's sake, keep your head down. The whole point of you moving to the city was so that you can't be traced!" 

"Can you describe what they looked like?" 

Gwynn can hear her struggling to get back in control. "They said tall, a man, a human man. That's all I know. I shut down the lead, but if anyone gave anything more than I think they did, if there's someone who thinks it's worth..."

"I get it, you're right, I'm sorry." Gwynn gives Varric an apologetic glance as she leaves the room. "I won't do it again. I was just worried about money."

She can practically hear Sera seething. "See if I ever take on a sorry arse like yours again."

It takes a very long time for Gwynn to fall asleep that night, and when she does, her dreams are full of shadows. 

 

To her embarrassment and frustration, a day after making rent she gets sick. 

It starts as something small; a scratchy soreness in her throat. She goes to work, giving Connor a wan smile when he asks her if she's alright. But by the time she returns home she is feverish, sweating ferociously, and so tired she can barely move her limbs. 

"Dalish don't get colds, indeed," she mutters to herself. She has run out of food, her options limited by the lack of a fridge, and she has no medicine or painkillers. She's using toilet paper for tissues, and her nose is bright red and rubbed raw. 

She considers contacting Solas, but he left for a dig a few days before. Sera is another option, but the thought of her loud voice right now makes Gwynn's head hurt. She lives pretty far away too, in a sharehouse in Orlais, of all places. And she'd been so angry earlier. 

In the end Gwynn sends an apologetic text to Varric, asking if he'd mind picking up some medicine for her. A minute later, she hears a knock at the door. 

"You okay, Inks?" Varric takes one look at her apartment and wrinkles his nose. "Maker's balls, this place is small."

She gives him a red-faced smile of relief, hanging onto the door handle. "Hey, Varric."

"You look like shit," he says frankly. He reaches up and puts a cool hand against her forehead. Drowsy as she is, she doesn't have a chance to pull away, and anyway, his hand feels nice. "Go on, get back to bed. I brought the drugs." 

"Don't say that where Cassandra can hear," Gwynn jokes weakly. She trudges back into her apartment, all but collapsing into bed as Varric makes himself at home. 

"You don't have a kettle?" he says, looking through her kitchen.

"I've been boiling water on the stove," she says, half getting up. He waves her back down, getting a pot out of the cupboard to the side of the kitchen. 

Gwynn has a headache building like a thunderstorm. She lies back down, coughs, blows her nose, and tries not to feel too sorry for herself. "You don't have to do this for me," she mumbles. 

"Sick people should shut up and let others take care of them."

She coughs. "Okay."

"Good girl. Here, lemon tea and flu pills." He sets down the pills and a glass of water and watches her gingerly drink the tea. He frowns. "You should have someone here. You got family in the city?"

"No."

"What about your friend-with-benefits?" Varric gives her a shrewd look. "Or are you two not so friendly at the moment?"

She smiles. "I don't wanna trouble her any more than I have already." Varric regards her for a moment longer, his expression vaguely disapproving, and she starts to feel guilty. "I'll be fine," she says. 

He sighs. "I've got to get back to work. Cassandra's home now though, Cullen too. I'll let them know you're sick, get them to check in on you."

Gwynn feels a little panicked. As much as she likes Cassandra and Cullen, she still doesn't know them very well. And Cassandra's piercing gaze makes her nervous. 

Varric must have seen something in her face because he gives her a comforting half-smile. "They won't mind. Cullen's a soft-touch, and Cassandra's so bloody noble she'd probably try to absorb the cold for herself." 

Gwynn gives a small smile at that. "High praise."

"Just don't tell her I said so.” He looks at her a moment longer, then says, “Josephine then? Someone needs to check up on you. And it doesn't look like you have anything to eat in here, huh?"

Gwynn shakes her head, tears pricking her eyes. "Sorry." 

Varric chuckles, and a blunt hand comes down on Gwynn's head to ruffle her hair. She makes a discomforted noise. "Don't worry about it," he says. "Try to sleep, okay? I want my favourite typist back to work as soon as possible."

"Josephine is your favourite," she says with a smile. 

"So true." 

She laughs, and Varric leaves her to try and sleep. Thankfully, blissfully, the medicine does its work, and she falls asleep despite her discomfort. 

She awakes to a gentle knock on the door. 

"Gwynn?" It's Josephine. "We brought you something to eat." 

Someone else must be there too. Gwynn struggles up out of bed, and answers the door with a murmured, "Hello." She blinks. Josephine, Cassandra and Cullen give her sympathetic smiles. Cassandra holds a box of what looks like take-away. 

"Maker," Cullen says. "You look awful." 

She smiles. "Thank you."

"I -- I mean, no, you look lovely as ever, just...sick."

"Nice save." She chuckles, but that hurts her throat. Showing them in, she says, "I apologise ... The first time you're invited over and I am all gross and disgusting." 

"Varric mentioned that you didn't have anything to eat--oh, my." Josephine stops, looking around. Gwynn is suddenly hyper-aware of her tiny stack of clothes, the makeshift bed, the box bedside-table. She turns a deep, embarrassed shade of red. 

"It's not much."

"Oh, no, it's ... Ah, is that the bottle from the Mexican place?" Josephine smiles, looking down at it. "And the other from the level 2 party... I hope you're not sick just from partying too hard." She looks over at Gwynn, expression teasing, and Gwynn relaxes with a smile. 

Cassandra helps her back into bed while Cullen opens the window to let some fresh air in. Gwynn stammers her thanks, trying not to think about how pathetic she must look. Josephine takes the container of food to the kitchen to spoon it into a bowl. 

Cassandra's hand is on Gwynn's forehead and she tsks. "How did you end up in such a state?" 

Gwynn looks hazily up at her. Cassandra’s brow is furrowed. "I don't know ... I haven't been sleeping well."

"Why not?"

"I get nightmares." She can't think properly. That sleep should have made her feel better, not worse.

"Nightmares?" Cullen is frowning at her. 

"I ... Yes. I haven't been able to sleep more than a few hours since I moved here."

"You should see a doctor..." Cullen says, voice full of concern. 

Cassandra shoots Cullen an unreadable look. "Oh? Should she?" For some reason, Cullen’s pale face turns red, his jaw set mulishly. 

Josephine brings a bowl over. "I don't know if you'll be able to eat it, but we brought you some food." It looks like noodle stir fry, and it is thankfully not too hard to eat. 

Josephine nods approvingly once they've set Gwynn up. "Would you like us to stay for a while? I could bring my laptop down and we could watch a movie. Or if you need space..."

Gwynn swallows some noodles, blinking back tears again. "You're all so nice to me." She rubs her eyes with a tired smile. Despite her initial reluctance at having Cullen and Cassandra there, she finds that being surrounded by people is actually comforting. It reminds her of her clan. The thought makes her choke up, but she forces herself to say, "I'd love for you to stay for a while, but I don't want you to get sick." 

"Then we'll stay!" Josephine says brightly, clapping her hands together. She rests a hand on top of Gwynn's and says, "I'll be right back."

She returns with her laptop and a rather sheepish looking Leliana, who gives Gwynn a gentle smile. Gwynn is past caring about the state of her apartment, so finds herself laughing when Leliana says, "We can barely all fit in here." The others lean against the wall and sit on the couch as Josephine sets herself up next to Gwynn.

The end up watching old episodes of Friends, the only show they can all agree on, with a surprising vote of confidence from Cassandra. Gwynn falls asleep to Josephine’s quick-running commentary and Leliana’s shimmering laughter. 

 

She dreams of Luca. 

It's just like back when she was alive. Luca is bright as a flame and sharp as a broken mirror. She smiles, steps up to Gwynn and wraps her in her arms. Gwynn lets out a great sigh and relaxes into Luca's embrace, breathing in her familiar salt-and-nectar scent. 

"Da'mi, you're treading a dangerous path." Luca's voice seems to come from a long way away, as if it were bubbling up through water. 

"You're the one who set me on it."

"Yes, I am." No trace of fear or regret in that voice. Just fierce, fierce pride. 

"And you're dead."

"Yes, I am." 

Luca's skin begins to burn, and then she is a flaming torch in Gwynn's arms. In a strange state of torpor, Gwynn doesn't move away. The flames feel like a thousand needle points, hot and sharp against her skin. They could be tattooing her whole body. 

"No," Gwynn says slowly, confused. "This isn't how you died."

The flames abruptly stop, and Luca gives Gwynn a sad smile. "No, it isn't."

The skin on Luca's neck splits in a line, and her head rolls from her shoulders to fall sightlessly to the ground. 

Gwynn screams. 

 

"Gwynn ... Gwynn!" 

A gasp, a wild-eyed look around. Where is she? Within four walls, two people leaning over her ...

Josephine and Cullen are bent over her, expressions filled with worry. 

Gwynn draws in breath after shuddering breath. Her clothes are drenched in her own sweat, and her headache and sore throat are back in full force. The painkillers in the medicine must have worn off. 

"Gwynn, are you ... Are you alright?" Josephine reaches out as if to touch her, but Cullen puts his hand on Josephine's arm.

"Wait until she responds," he says softly. Then, to her, "Gwynn? Can you hear us?"

Gwynn swallows. "A nightmare?"

Cullen nods. "You cried out. Are you alright?"

"I ... Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

Cullen removes his hand from Josephine's arm, and Josephine touches Gwynn's forehead, letting out a low hiss. "You feel even hotter. If this fever doesn't break ..."

"It will," Cullen says, though his expression isn't as sure as his words. "You'd better, ah, get her into some new clothes. I'll just ... head back, I think."

"Very well," Josephine says, with a hint of amusement. "Thank you for remaining behind ... so insistently."

"I ... Well." Cullen clears his throat, then looks back at Gwynn. "Feel better soon."

They move to the door, exchanging a few quiet words. Dumbly, Gwynn begins to pull her sodden shirt over her head. Halfway through, her arms tire and she's forced to drop them, her shirt stuck over her head. 

"Josephine..." she says weakly. 

She hears Cullen bid Josephine a hasty goodbye, and Josephine's chuckle as she returns and helps remove Gwynn's shirt. "I'll get you some more medicine in a moment, querida. Lift your hips."

Gwynn manages to shuck off her trousers, and Josephine searches fruitlessly for a replacement pair. "I'm going to give you some of my cast-offs," she mutters. 

"What time is it?"

"About ten o'clock. Here." Josephine pulls a new shirt over Gwynn's head. "Lay back down, Gwynn."

"You're still here...?"

"Yes, and glad of it." Josephine's voice is filled with the same mild reproof that Varric had expressed earlier. "How you think you could care for yourself in this state I will never know. Do you have work tomorrow?"

"No."

"Good. Stay in bed," Josephine says firmly. "I will stay with you until your fever breaks."

"No, Josephine..." Gwynn struggles to sit up, making a frustrated noise when Josephine easily pins her back down with one hand. "You have work tomorrow, and I'm worried you'll get sick..."

"You don't much like to rely on others, do you?" 

At that moment, there is a knock on the door. Josephine frowns. "Who could that be? Did Cullen leave something behind, perhaps...?"

Gwynn feels the beginnings of panic, remembering Sera's warning. She is about to tell Josephine to stop, not to open the door, but it is too late.

Standing behind the door is not some faceless, nameless enemy, but Solas. He looks as surprised to see Josephine as she is to see him. 

"Is Gwynn here?" he says, recovering with a poise that makes Gwynn envious. Does he ever get flustered? 

"This is her apartment," Josephine says with wary humour. "I'm afraid she isn't feeling well, so..."

"It's alright, Josephine," Gwynn croaks. "Hello, Solas. I thought you were away."

Solas nods his thanks as Josephine lets him in. "I returned an hour ago. You are unwell, lethallan?" He kneels smoothly beside her bed.

"Did you use your fancy archaeologist skills to work that out?" Gwynn says, grinning as her voice cracks. 

Solas doesn't quite roll his eyes, but she can sense his exasperation. "At least being bedridden hasn't dampened your questionable sense of humour."

"You love my jokes," Gwynn says, completely without conviction. It has the desired effect, however, as the corner of Solas’ mouth tilts up into a smile.

"I had no idea you two were close," Josephine says from behind them. Solas glances back at her with a slight frown, hands twisting together, and Gwynn shrugs one shoulder. 

Josephine lets out a soft snort. "Well, I shall leave you to it. Gwynn, if this is the reason you didn't want me to stay, you should have just said so." 

Gwynn is too feverish to tell if she's blushing, but Josephine's speculative smile is sure making her face feel pretty hot. 

Solas says slowly, "If I am interrupting, I can return tomorrow."

"Oh, no, please don’t leave on my account,” Josephine says, practically purring. “I’ll check on you tomorrow, Gwynn.” She pauses at the door, eyebrow lifted as if to confirm.

Gwynn gives the half-shrug again, smiling bemusedly. “Okay. Thanks, Josephine.”

“My pleasure. Sleep well.” 

After Josephine shuts the door behind her, Gwynn says, “She definitely has the wrong idea.”

“Does she?” Solas says, straight-faced.

Gwynn gives him a wide-eyed look. “Doesn’t she?” Solas starts to laugh and she scowls. “Will you please stop messing with me.”

“I will not. You make it far too enjoyable.” He rests his hand against her head, and she starts at the sudden contact. “What happened to ‘Dalish don’t get colds’?”

Gwynn has to resist rolling her eyes at that one. “I’m pretty sure this is a fever, not a cold.” Suddenly exhausted, she settles back into the blankets and closes her eyes. Solas’ hand doesn’t leave her forehead, and after a moment he pulls his fingers gently through her hair, smoothing it back from her face.

“What is this...?” Gwynn asks sleepily. 

“What is what?”

“This thing you and I have.” She opens her eyes to catch a glimpse of surprise on his face. She thinks for a moment he’ll shut himself off from her and draw away, but his hand passes over her head again, long fingers tangling in her hair. She closes her eyes with a sigh and faintly hears Solas exhale.

“Do you have medicine you should be taking?” 

“On the counter,” she says softly. 

She slips away into the haze for a moment, and then he’s there again, with the pills and a wet cloth to press to her forehead. She swallows the pills greedily, hoping that she can get through the night on them, hoping the nightmares are done for now. The hand on her head is soothing, rhythmic, and she starts to drift off again.

“Luca,” she murmurs. “Luca, weren’t we twin-souls?”

The hand on her forehead stills, and Luca doesn’t reply.

“If we were, wouldn’t I have died too?”

A voice, from very far away, says, “I worry about you, lethallan." The voice is sad, which is wrong. Luca is never sad. 

"I'm sorry," she says, confused. 

"Sleep, Gwynn." 

Then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter wasn't too indulgent. Also not sure if this needs a warning for violence/body horror? Let me know if so.
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos/comments/subscribes! Knowing there are this many people reading is pretty intimidating in a way, so it's great to hear from you too.


	10. echo

Chapter 10: echo

 

_Come on, up you get._

Gwynn’s eyes flicker open. “...Luca?”

Bright green leaves rustle above her, gaps of blue sky peeking out from in between them. Gwynn recognises those trees. They’re at a favourite fishing spot, and Gwynn must have fallen asleep. 

She rubs her eyes as Luca steps into her field of vision, smiling down at her. Luca has the fishing poles slung over her shoulder and a trout held by the jaw in her other hand. There’s watery fish blood on the trout’s head where Luca has knocked it against a rock, and it has been gutted already.

_We have to get back to camp,_ Luca says, teeth flashing in a grin. _Deshanna will worry if we take too long._

“Right.” Gwynn gets up. “Want me to carry the fish?”

_I got it,_ Luca says. _You have to stop falling asleep on the grass, da'mi, you'll get stains._

"Yes mother," Gwynn says, brushing herself off.

_Mother!_ Luca barks a laugh. _Your Ma would be rolling in her grave if she heard you call me that._

Rolling in her grave, Gwynn thinks absently. "Where did you learn that expression?" she asks. 

_You're not the only one with flat-eared friends,_ Luca says, shrugging. 

"Don't call them that," Gwynn says, frowning. It never used to bother her, Luca's derision of the city elves, but after meeting Sera and ... No. Sera is the only city elf she knows. "We should have sympathy for the fl...the city elves. They're not there because they want to be."

Luca _hmmms_ in a way that buzzes right through her lanky frame. Unconvinced, again.

"Not everyone has your command over their destiny, Luca."

Luca's dark chuckle makes Gwynn look at her. _What do you know of my destiny, Gwynn?_

"I know that whatever happens, it will be on your terms."

Luca just smiles and shakes her head. 

They set off through the forest, Luca whistling Dalish folk songs. Gwynn hums along under her breath, but can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. 

_You didn't ask me who my flat-eared friends are,_ Luca says, wiggling her eyebrows conspiratorially. 

Luca's words ring against something in her mind, like the echo bouncing around the inside of a bell. "Yes I did..." Gwynn says. Didn’t she? But no, she didn’t. She told Luca off about the city elves. 

Luca is smiling at her. She laughs and digs into her bag. _Well, I say friends. More like suppliers._

In Luca's hands is a gun. 

Gwynn feels a great wave of unease wash through her. She doesn't know much about guns, just enough to know that it's a handgun or pistol of some kind, and then only from vague ideas gathered from Varric’s crime novels. Varric Tethras, that is. 

Again, that tremor of wrongness. Bringing herself back to the moment, she says, “Keeper will tan your hide if she catches you with that.”

_Shanna’s fangless,_ Luca says dismissively. _She’s getting old._

Gwynn stops and puts her hands on her hips. “You’re being pretty mean today. That’s a horrible thing to say about your grandmother.” 

Luca smirks. _I’ve always been mean, Gwynn. You just love me too much to remember it._

At that moment, there’s a flicker of something through the trees, and the snap of a twig. Gwynn and Luca stop talking at once, turning in silent, smooth motion to stare out into the forest. It’s a short way off, whatever it is, and it takes a moment for Gwynn to recognise it.

“Is that a dog?”

Luca doesn’t reply. 

The beast is staring at them. It’s a dark grey colour, with paler eyes, two pinpricks of light glinting their way. Not far enough away to be harmless, not close enough to be a threat. Just watching. 

Slowly, Luca raises the gun. _That’s a wolf._

Gwynn puts her hand on Luca’s in alarm, and the beast twitches. “There are no wolves out here."

_Wolf, feral dog, they’re the same if they’re big and hungry,_ Luca's smiling, but with the same anticipatory focus she gets before a fight. 

“Just leave it be, Luca. Don’t waste your bullets.”

Luca hesitates, her gun trained on the dog. It’s eyes are fixed on Luca now, but then, casually, it turns and trots back into the forest, disappearing through the underbrush. 

Luca lowers the gun, and Gwynn lets out a breath. "I guess it wasn't hungry."

_You're not scared of wolves?_ Luca says, looking at her incredulously. 

"Not if they don't attack me."

Luca taps the butt of the gun against Gwynn's breastbone. _You can't give them that chance, whether it's wolves or shemlen. Don't let your guard down, and don't take pity._

"We didn't get hurt," Gwynn says, but she sounds like she's whining even to herself.

Luca cuffs the back of her head with a good-natured sigh. _That soft streak is going to get you killed._

 

The Dalish camp is business as usual. The Keeper, a wizened old woman with yellow teeth and a crooked back, glares at Luca when they return, but Luca simply gives her a sweet smile and takes the fish to the campfire, handing it over to Gwynn's foster mother Marley. 

_Thank ye, sweetness,_ Marley says. _Though ye'd been gone long enough it's a wonder this is all ye caught._

_Gwynn fell asleep,_ Luca replies impishly.

"Luca!"

Luca laughs and blows Gwynn a kiss before dancing away to pester Eilis. Shaking her head, Marley pulls Gwynn down by the elbow and drops a kiss on her forehead. _Welcome back, da'len._

Gwynn can't explain the sudden lump in her throat or the tears that prick at her eyes, so she nods and helps Marley peel potatoes for dinner.

Despite the familiar ritual of dinner making, she can't shake her unease. Something is wrong. Are they being watched? Perhaps the wild dog had followed them back to camp. Her limbs feel sluggish, her mind slow. She casts another log onto the fire with one hand, and a lick of flame curls along her wrist. She snatches her hand away, but there is no burn.

 

After dinner, they sit around the campfire, telling stories. Maraeth tells the story of Ghilan’nain, favoured by the hunter goddess Andruil, and her transformation into a beautiful white deer, the mythical halla. 

When Maraeth’s story is finished, Luca enthusiastically launches into a story about Dirthamen. When she comes to the part where Falon'din leads the deer to the afterlife, Luca looks at Gwynn expectantly. 

"What?" Gwynn asks. 

_You play Falon'din, of course. You're the one with the tattoos._

"Oh, right." Gwynn takes a breath to continue the story, but a memory stops her; her clan members' looks of anger and sorrow when she got the death god's tattoos. Like they didn't want to remember.

She stares at Luca's curling smile, and almost thinks she sees her wink. 

This is a dream. 

Gwynn takes a breath and continues the story. 

"Falon'din guided the deer through the fade, the space between this world and the afterlife, the space where we dream." Ironic, she thinks, to realise this is a dream now. "And Dirthamen couldn't follow, getting lost in the twisting paths beyond the veil."

_Dirthamen came across two ravens,_ Luca continues, and Gwynn blinks. Two ravens are perched Luca’s shoulders, preening their feathers, nonchalant. It's as if the dream knows that she knows, and has decided it doesn't care about the details any more. But then, there had been other hints she hadn’t noticed before now.

Luca’s gun. She hadn't had it when they were camped here, and their conversation had happened differently. Part-memory, part-dream, everything had played out almost as it had before. 

Except for the wolf. Gwynn has never seen a wolf in her life. 

She notices other things too; a creeping mist at the edges of her vision, the figures in front of her blurring. Only Luca remains in focus. As Luca continues the story, Gwynn watches Marley and the others fade from view. Tears blur her vision as her clan disappears from in front of her.

It had been a lovely dream.

_The two ravens told Dirthamen that Falon'din didn't love him any more, that his twin soul had left him forever. But Dirthamen knew their words to be false, and so he bound the ravens, Fear and Deceit, to his service._

The ravens flap into the air and settle on Luca's head, claws gripping her hair. Luca continues to speak, even as they lift her head from her body. Her body falls limply and dissipates like smoke. _Dirthamen told Fear and Deceit to bring him to Falon'din, and the twins were united once again._

Mesmerised, Gwynn holds out her hands to accept Luca from the birds. Luca's head feels slippery and insubstantial in her hands, but it smiles up at her, lips parting again to say, _There's someone here to see you._

Gwynn turns, heart in her throat. "Is this the part where the dreams turn to nightmares?"

There is something further off, a bobbing light, disappearing into the swirling, muted landscape. Too unnerved to stand around and do nothing, she follows it, walking through the mist with Luca's head in her hands. 

"Where are you taking me, Luca?" Gwynn asks, but Luca is quiet. 

Time passes in the strange way of dreams. Gwynn might have been walking for an hour or a second, but she eventually starts to recognise the landscape. It’s the parkland that she’d visited with Solas.

“Why bring me here?” Gwynn says, turning slowly to take in the brightly autumnal leaves, the soft pattering of the rain. She raises her voice slightly and tries to calm her shaking hands. “If I’m not going to wake up, you may as well hit me with the nightmares so I can get it over with.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then a figure steps out from the swirling mist. 

“Hello," Solas says.

Gwynn blinks, thrown. Solas is looking at her with something akin to wary curiosity, but she is so relieved to see him that she barely notices. 

_Underwhelming,_ says Luca, and Gwynn laughs. 

“Hello to you, too," she says. "What are you doing here?”

He gives her a half-smile. “It is your dream, lethallan.” 

“Oh...yeah.” 

"Perhaps you wanted to see me."

"Hah!" She grins, hoping for a smile in return. "If I could control my dreams, we'd both be naked in a sea of strawberries."

Solas huffs a laugh, his cheeks colouring, and he walks towards her until he’s standing in front of her. He holds out his hands. “Will you introduce me to your friend?”

“This is...” Gwynn begins, but looking down makes her pause. She’s not holding Luca any more. In her hands is a glowing ball of light. Utterly confused now, she gives it to Solas, where it hovers an inch or two above his cupped hands. “Ah ... Luca?”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Solas says quite seriously to the ball of light. Gwynn giggles, but Solas doesn’t acknowledge her amusement. “If you don’t mind, you have done enough. You may go.” 

The light shimmers and disappears, and Gwynn feels like the bottom of her stomach has dropped away. “Oh.”

Solas puts a hand on her shoulder. “If carrying the head of a loved one isn’t a nightmare, Gwynn, then I shudder to think what the rest of your dreams are like.”

Gwynn forces a laugh. “Believe me, this is far less dramatic than my dreams have been lately. But still very strange.” She looks around. Everything looks as she remembers from their visit, but ill-defined and with a strange, soft glow. “I used to dream like this when I was younger. Lucid. But then when I got older, I’d wake up as soon as I realised it was dream.” 

“I wonder why that hasn’t happened this time." Solas sits down on the grass, hands resting lightly on his crossed legs. “Perhaps the medicine you took has kept you asleep past that point.”

Gwynn grimaces and sits down next to him. The sensations of the dream aren’t quite as sharp as they would be in real life, but she can still feel the dampness of the grass, and smell the sharp scent of pine needles, and feel a quiet warmth emanating from Solas’ body. “Maybe. I was sick, wasn’t I?”

“Very.” Solas is looking at the creek absently. “You sorely needed rest. I hope you stay asleep for a long time.”

Gwynn smiles and leans into his side. “What a nice thing for a figment of my imagination to say.”

She can feel his muscles tense through his clothes. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” She rests her head against his shoulder. The wool of his jumper is soft beneath her cheek. “Just enjoying the dream.” She gives a throaty laugh. "You don't know what it's like to fear going to sleep."

Solas takes a moment to reply. "No, I do not." An arm wraps around her back, hand resting lightly on her hip. 

"Why did Luca turn into a ball of light?"

Solas glances down at her. From this angle, she can see the smooth underside of his jaw, the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but not his expression. He hesitates for a moment, and then says slowly, "I believe your friend might have been a spirit."

Gwynn feels the hairs on her arms raise. "Luca's spirit?"

"Not exactly," Solas says

"You sound unsure."

He frowns. "I cannot be sure. A spirit of memory, or comfort, or perhaps a trickster considering that last comment..."

Gwynn draws back a little to look at him, her brow furrowed. "You mean like spirits of the fade? You're saying this is actually the fade?"

He looks at her sidelong. "You believe in your gods, do you not? Is it so hard to believe in the fade?"

Gwynn rankles a little at 'your gods', but she's had that argument with Sera more times than she can count, so she pushes down her indignation. "I suppose.”

“Well, regardless of where you believe we are, it will matter little when you awaken. I doubt you will remember any of this."

"I will remember," Gwynn says, stubborn.

"You won't." 

Gwynn elbows him. He mock winces. "You were avoiding my question, when I was awake," she says as she relaxes back into his side. 

"Would you prefer me to answer it now, in your dreams?" he teases. She can feel his words reverberate through his body.

Gwynn laughs without sound, just a brief shaking of her shoulders. "Yes, go on. If I like the answer, then I'll have a very good dream, and if I don't, well, I can just wake up."

"You're awfully brave now that you know you are in a dream," Solas says musingly, looking down at her.

She sighs. "Avoiding, avoiding," she says. 

She tilts her head and presses her lips to his. 

He lets out a small sound, lips unmoving on hers. She can feel the tension in his neck, and the way he trembles slightly as she draws away from him, flushed and biting back an apology. 

She won't say sorry. She'll walk away and wake up and then this nightmare will be--

His hand grabs her arm as she tries to move away, pulling her roughly into him, the other cupping her jaw to tilt her face to meet his. His lips are on hers, and, surprised, she opens her mouth. His tongue slides against hers and she murmurs something unintelligible and desperate. 

He eases off immediately, kissing her lips until they are swollen. He tastes sweet and strange and sharp all at once. At some stage, somehow, she has wrapped her arms around his neck and crawled into his lap, and he pulls her a closer until their chests are pressed together. They fall back onto the grass with a thud, just a little too hard, and Solas' teeth catch her lip. She laughs breathlessly, tasting a hint of coppery blood, and he smiles against her mouth.

She wants to kiss him everywhere. It hasn't escaped her notice that she's now laying on top of him, her legs either side of one of his thighs. She draws back a little, kisses his neck, but he puts his hands on her shoulders. 

"We shouldn't do this here," he says. His voice is rough. 

"Why not...?" Gwynn swallows, hard, unable to resist licking her tingling lips. His gaze follows this motion of her tongue and it distracts him long enough for her to kiss him again, open-mouthed and pleading. 

He controls her desire though, lets it beat against him like waves against stone. His lips ease over hers until she's shuddering. 

"I had hoped you would sleep a little longer," he says, kissing her once more. "But this is getting dangerous." 

She lets out a small sound of complaint as he untangles them. "But it's just a dream..."

"Speak to me when you awaken, lethallan."

"I will, but..."

"Remember."

"I will."

He shakes his head, full of heavy surety. 

_No, you won't._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so nervous about posting this but I can't think of any way to make it better and you've all waited long enough!! As always, thank you for your patience. I've just started a new job so I haven't had as much time as usual. 
> 
> Thanks for all your nice comments. 
> 
> I love you. 
> 
> Yes, you.


End file.
